Come Undone
by Syaria
Summary: Arkham. Him. Her. The rest is the stuff of Gotham legend. Joker/Harley. Post TDK.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Batman and all of its characters are property of DC.

**A/N: **I loved The Dark Knight. I loved it more than Batman Begins and that's saying something. Anyway I've wanted to write a TDK story for a while, and after reading some of the better stories on here I came up with a few ideas of my own.

I steered clear of OCs, because I don't think I'm yet capable of writing a decent one. Instead I used Harley Quinn. I always thought (or hoped) that if Heath Ledger hadn't have died (R.I.P) then Harley would have made an appearance. I know that's impossible now because Heath Ledger is irreplaceable in that role. But if it had happened, I think it would've happened something like this.

* * *

It had been three weeks, two days, fourteen hours and thirty two seconds since The Joker had arrived at Arkham, and out of those three weeks, two days fourteen hours and thirty two seconds, it had taken him precisely four days and forty seven seconds to realise that Arkham was boring. Mind numbingly, brain achingly _boring_.

He couldn't help but be disappointed. He'd seen Arkham as an opportunity to incite fear and chaos through Gotham in an entirely new way. It was practically splitting at the seams with the mentally vulnerable and the plain out psychotic, and the thought of twisting their tormented minds even further, of leading them into a rebellion, of using them to help bring a weakened city to its knees had made his heart beat faster in unprecedented excitement.

So it hadn't gone without protest when he'd been secluded. They'd had a hard time getting the strait jacket on him. In fact, they'd had a hard time getting within ten feet of him. He'd laughed all the while, treating their feeble attempts to restrain him with genuine amusement. In the end it had taken one very brave, very experienced nurse, and a large syringe filled with some of the most powerful tranquilizers it was legal to get away with using.

He'd awoken groggily three days later with the headache to end all headaches and a temper so violent that the guards of the seclusion wing had recoiled against the wall furthest away from his cell, despite the fact that there was a god six inches of metal separating him from them.

Eileen, the seasoned mental nurse who had sedated him, had thought he was a terrifying man the moment she'd set eyes on him, but when he descended into anger he became something else entirely. He did not explode into irrational screaming, nor did he throw a tantrum on the floor like a spoiled six year old. He stood seething on the spot, his voice low and venomous, and his demeanour cold and calculated.

When Eileen had first seen it she had thought she was looking at the incarnate of the Devil himself. God had sent a messenger in the form of his son, so it did not seem entirely unreasonable in her terrified, slightly irrational mind that perhaps the Devil had achieved a similar feat. His eyes were so dark they seemed unnatural, and the oily hair that hung in pale green tendrils around his eyes only accentuated the ghostly pallor of his painted face. That face which was glowing with pulses of malicious, murderous fury.

"Do you _really _think that this, ah – _path-etic _little cell of yours will hold me forever?" His voice was low and dangerous as he spoke, but dripping in a sadistic kind of sarcasm. When only a nervous silence followed his threatening question, Eileen quickly learned that the one thing The Joker hated more than his secluded boredom was being ignored. "Answer me!" He roared at them, his tone splattered with fury. It was not a question and it was not a desperate request. It was an inescapable question.

One of the two guards who had been stationed to The Joker's post bit his lip nervously. He was young and new to the job, and although quivering in what he knew to be fear, he attempted to answer. "There's-" He faltered as the Joker's face made itself visible through the small slot in the door. Clearing his throat he tried again. "There's half a foot of solid steel between you and anywhere else. You really must be insane if you think you can escape!"

For the first time that evening a grin lurked at the corners of the Joker's mouth. "What's your name?" His tone was now polite, almost cheerful and the look of confusion that spread across the guard's face gave him a small sense of gratification. "We-ll? It's _rude_ to ignore people, you know, or did your parents not think manners important enough to _teach_ you?"

"Henry. My name's Henry." His voice was defiant.

The Joker smiled. "Well, _Henry_, when I get out of here – and hold me to my word, I _will_ get out of here – I'll take special care to make sure I find you and kill you for that insolence of yours-"

The older guard gently squeezed Henry's shoulder, and mistaking it as a sign to assert some authority, Henry interrupted. "Oh quit your rambling. You're not getting out, and no one cares for any off the bullshit you have to spout-"

"It _looks_," the Joker cut across him smoothly, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of irritation "like those _pathetic _parent's of yours didn't bother to teach you any manners at all. So when I escape, and I find you, and we have a little _fun_ I'll make sure to leave a message to your, ah, _family_ telling them it's all their own fault their precious little boy is now in several pieces, because they just didn't bother to teach him any social etiquette. I'm sure that will make for a depressing funeral. Not that it'll make any difference…" He grinned. "Can't have a funeral if there's no body…"

"Shut up!" Henry launched himself at the slot where the Joker's face had been just seconds before, only to be met with a mirthless, sadistic, cackle. "Oh Henry, I'm going to _enjoy_ killing you!"

Henry had been escorted off by Eileen, who had kept her eyes downcast for most of the argument. Like many among her generation, she was a religious woman and she felt as though every time she met the eyes of the Joker he pierced her soul and tainted her as only a devil could. She had no idea how she had managed to get near enough to sedate him the evening he arrived, when even being on the other side of the asylum felt too close now. His presence was suffocating, and it spread everywhere, leaving no one unaffected.

The Joker was hoping that Henry would return so that he could continue provoking a reaction from him, but as time ticked on it became apparent that Henry would not be stationed at his cell again. After a further one hour and forty seven seconds, the Joker realised that seclusion was boring, mind numbingly, brain achingly boring.

* * *

Doctor Harleen Quinzel was relatively new at Arkham, the sole winner of a coveted internship from college. She had been thrilled when it had been announced. It had made all the arduous years of her youth seem irrelevant, it had made the huge debts from college seem unimportant and it had made her feel that her life was finally worth something. Indeed she felt as though her life had really just begun. She was still young and she felt as though she was on the flourishing path of success.

The first few months had been slow as she learned the ropes of her new profession and ghosted the more experienced doctors during their sessions with patients. Slowly, she'd been granted her own trickle of relatively minor patients, until the trickle had turned into a stream which turned into a full blown waterfall with the force of a bursting dam. As both the Joker and Batman went into overdrive in the city, the amount of patients being admitted sky rocketed, and Harleen found herself questioning _exactly_ where Gotham's resident psychopath had found them all. With a chill she remembered the night not long after Batman's initial appearance in the city, not long before she came to Arkham, when a mass break out had caused hysteria in the city.

The night Batman caught the Joker was something of a monumental experience. It was late, and like usual, Harleen was still at work. She wasn't the only one – many members of the medical staff at Arkham had forgotten what their homes looked liked. Patients needed attending to and the torrent of police officers coming to question lackeys left alive by the Joker was constant. The newly appointed Commissioner had even made an appearance a couple of times when a particularly hopeful lead had turned up, but it always seemed to end up in disappointment, the officers leaving in silent frustration.

It was a young nurse by the name of Rebecca who had announced it. She had rushed into the staff room where Harleen had managed to grab a two minute break, shouting at all present to turn the news on.

It had been on virtually ever channel: the Joker had been caught and Batman was wanted as his accomplice. He was to be escorted to Arkham for questioning; because after having blown half the police station up it had been determined he couldn't be trusted there. Then, as if to make the news of Batman's supposed turn to the dark side even worse, Harvey Dent, Gotham's white knight, had been announced as dead.

There had been a frenzied panic as the news spread like wildfire, the untouched cells in the secluded section of the asylum being set up for both interrogation, and the stay of what would undoubtedly be their newest and most dangerous resident. Harleen wasn't surprised; it was hardly like the man could go to County after everything he'd done. What was surprising though was the death of Harvey Dent and the turn of the city's most prized vigilante into a murderer. Somewhere inside her heart Harleen refused to believe it, it just didn't seem right. How would Gotham survive without two of the few people who it seemed had genuinely wanted to make it right again?

She was told that she was to take over for some of the asylums senior psychiatrists as they had been told they were to help deal with the insanity of the Joker upon his arrival. Resigning herself to the fact that she was neither going home nor sleeping that night, Harleen had complied, the romanticism she had believed her profession to pertain having worn off long ago.

By three AM she was longing for something caffeinated to relieve both her tiredness and the dull throb in her temples. Her blonde hair was dishevelled, her make up smudged and, as someone had so eloquently decided to put it, she looked like "a cat with rabies coming down from a particularly bad acid trip." She'd politely told them where to shove their analogy.

By four AM, exactly four hours, three minutes and seven seconds since the Joker had arrived at Arkham, Commissioner Gordon had appeared in the staff room looking for some coffee, where Harleen was once again grabbing a two minute break between patients. She knew straight away that things weren't going well but he offered her a kind smile anyway, even though he looked like exertion was about to kill him.

"You look exhausted." She'd smiled, making him his drink.

"I could say the same for you."

"We're stretched pretty thin here."

"It's the same at the police station."

"Story of Gotham's life, right?"

"Hopefully not forever."

A silence lapsed between them while Harleen absently stirred his coffee, her mind elsewhere. "Is it really true then…?" She almost whispered it. "The Joker… he's a patient here now?"

He nodded. "I didn't particularly want it getting out to the press, you know what they can be like, I was afraid they'd swarm the place. Ironically though, they were too terrified to even be near him." He smirked mirthlessly into his drink.

"Do you really think… he's treatable?"

Commissioner Gordon's eyes flitted momentarily to the name tag on her white top. "You're the psychiatrist Dr. Quinzel, why don't you tell me?"

She bit her bottom lip. "I'm only just out of internship, I highly doubt I'll be allowed anywhere near him. Not for a while at least."

"But you have a personal opinion, surely?"

She paused, mulling it over in her head. "Well yes, of course I do… I believe… that he is very complex. Far more complex and far more intelligent that we would like to admit. I can only vouch for what I see on television and read in the papers Commissioner, but he seems to me to be a dangerous man to diagnose or treat. He plays mind games, and he's damn good at them. It makes me very grateful that I'm not experienced enough to be administering any treatment for him. He's…"

"Terrifying?"

"Yes. In more ways than one."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "You're a sensible girl, Dr. Quinzel. Keep fighting the good fight." He turned around to leave, coffee in hand when Harleen stopped him.

"It's Harleen by the way… Dr. Quinzel just sounds so… up my own butt."

He smiled. "Well Harleen, I feel the same about the title Commissioner. So call me Jim." And with that he extended his hand and she shook it.

"Yes but you've earned your title."

"Well… I think that's about to be put to the test, so we'll see shall we."

"Good luck."

And with that he left, leaving Harleen in a whirlwind of her own thoughts. Now she had a moment to take it in, she was fascinated by the idea that such an incredible, yet horrifying criminal mind was only a few floors above her. She'd bet his mind was one hell of a nut to crack. In fact she wouldn't be surprised if he was unbreakable. That was just the type of man the Joker seemed to be. He did the breaking.

Her pager bleeped incessantly at her side for about the hundredth time that night, snapping her out of her little reverie. With a sigh, she discarded her own cup of coffee and made her way to the other end of the asylum.

* * *

He raised his eyebrows as the small slot at the bottom of the door was lifted up and a tray of food was pushed in. It looked like decimated sick and he was none to doubtful about the amount of drugs the Arkham kitchen staff had more than likely mashed into it. Did they think he lacked the necessary tools to chew or did they just think it was funny to give him this pathetic pile of mush to eat? Either way, he added the names he didn't even know to the list of people from Arkham he was most definitely going to kill when he got out.

He glanced at the tray and was amused to see a thoroughly useless, blunt, plastic knife there. The irony almost made him laugh. He wondered who was stupid enough to trust him, the maniacal knife lover with such a thing, before determining that it was useless. He couldn't even take someone's eye out with that pathetic excuse for a blade, no matter what any mother might say to a child who happened to be flailing it around.

He went over his death list again. First and foremost there was Henry. He missed Henry. It was _nothing_ like having Batman to play with, but out of Henry he could get a rise. He could exploit that temper and those pathetic morals just to have some fun. Henry may have been insolent, but it was part of his appeal. Now he was absent he was most certainly going to die. Slowly.

Then there were the other eight guards who he had deduced worked in six hour shifts to keep a constant eye over him, two at a time. They all seemed like they'd been at the job for a while, because even though he'd manage to get a reaction out of all of them, none of them had replied with the passionate arrogance of youth like Henry had.

In effect they hadn't done a whole lot to relieve his boredom. So they were going to die. So was the first psychiatrist they'd sent to see him. He had assumed they'd send in someone made of stronger stuff, someone worth breaking down, someone worth being his toy. Well apparently not. They'd sent in an older man, maybe in his fifties, who the Joker had happily driven away by telling him a particularly gruesome story about how he got his scars. For a bonus he'd thrown in story of how he killed his last victim in explicit detail, because he thought it would be funny. And it had been. It had been a work of art even by his own standards.

That had been a particularly entertaining afternoon.

After that they hadn't sent another one. He knew they weren't finished with him yet; they were more than likely re-evaluating their game plan. Well he'd be ready when they did. In fact he'd undergo most treatments in order to escape the sterile, white, padded cell he'd been confined to, especially if it meant getting to play while he was gone.

* * *

**A/N: **It always makes me nervy, posting new stories. So if you're gonna review, you thoughts would be much appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Batman and all its characters are property of DC comics.

**A/N: **Okay a quick note about Harley. In this story she's not gonna be the kooky character from the cartoon, nor is she going to use the terms "Puddin'" or "Mr J," simply because I don't like them all that much. He personality is going to be closer (or more or less based on) her comic book image – darker, twisted, a bit more on par with The Joker.

But obviously such things won't happen quickly ;) Thanks for all the reviews people left for the last chapter, and the people who added this to their favorites and alerts and whatever!

* * *

It had been four weeks, two days, seven hours and nineteen seconds since the Joker had arrived at Arkham. That was over a month of not tormenting Batman, over a month of not provoking the public into mass hysteria and over a month of not causing serious injury to anyone via impressive pyrotechnics or general torture and abuse.

It had been a very bleak four weeks, two days, seven hours and nineteen seconds indeed.

The boredom was getting worse. What had started as a lack of anything _constructive _to do was slowly turning into a twisted coil of tension inside of him. If he had been a free man he might have blown something up to find release. Unfortunately, while he was in his plastic and padded prison that was out of the question.

He heard the loud chinking of metal outside as the wrought iron bars that separated the secluded patients from the normal patients were pulled open. The guards were switching shifts. It had been a guard – Andrea he believed her name was – who had told him what the extra door was for, and he'd actually cackled in laughter at her use of the term 'normal.'

He wondered if should bait the new guards for a while to help relieve the pressure inside him, but it didn't seem good enough. He needed to do something big, something grand, something he could truly be proud of.

And he needed to do it soon.

* * *

Over a month had passed since the Joker had come to Arkham, and despite never having seen him during his entire time there, Harleen could feel that he had made his presence very much known. It was everywhere, like a thick fog that seemed to creep around them all, causing the hairs on the backs of their necks to stand on end.

The first psychiatrist they'd sent into session with the Joker had been Doctor Reynolds. He was in his late fifties, was tall and had a thick head of steely grey hair. He reminded Harleen of her biological father, and she liked him a lot. He had been in his job for over thirty years, and he was a respected authority figure in the asylum.

Harleen had been horrified when she'd seen him emerge from the seclusion wing with an ashen face and silent demeanour. He was normally a cheerful man, always on hand for anyone who needed help. She had plucked up the courage to ask if he was ok, and all he had been able to do was shake his head. When she'd gently asked him what had happened, he'd struggled to get the words out.

"Shit Harleen… I was in there an hour, and within ten minutes he was in my head. Almost literally. Within half an hour he'd deduced I had a daughter. She's not much older than you… he sat there happily telling me what he'd done to girls her age in explicit detail… and you don't even want to know what he said about the scars… I deal with schizophrenics and the mentally disordered all the time, but he… he is something else entirely."

Harleen had shuddered but the incident had also piqued her curiosity again. The Joker seemed to have no motive behind his actions. He did things because he could, because he enjoyed watching people crack, because he got kicks out of watching chaos erupt around him. It horrified and fascinated her all at the same time, but her horror outweighed her fascination and once again, she felt incredibly grateful that she was required to be nowhere near him."

It had been mutually decided by all in charge of his case that the Joker would have to be approached from an entirely different angle. After a re-evaluation of the game plan it had been decided that Arkham had no choice but to bring in the heavy artillery.

Susan Smith looked like a relatively ordinary woman. She wore ordinary clothes, had an ordinary haircut and most of the time she wasn't at work, she lead at relatively ordinary life. Yet nothing about her was ordinary. Despite her petit stature and unthreatening appearance, Susan Smith was one of the most infamously feared people ever to have walked through the doors of the asylum. She was a psychiatrist – one of the best in America.

Harleen knew who Susan Smith was immediately without any need for confirmation, despite never having seen her before. She exuded an aura of authority that rivalled that of the Jokers and Harleen imagined that if one didn't suffocate under the sheer intensity of their combined presence, then the battle between them would be them would be the stuff of legend to witness.

She had thought nothing more of Susan Smith's presence at Arkham until she was called into the office of Doctor Reynolds. Upon entering she had been surprised to see Doctor Smith sat behind his desk, while he himself stood behind her. Both looked a little frustrated. Harleen had found herself unable to look into the eyes of Doctor Smith and instead, focused her attention on the man behind her.

"Harleen… the great wealth of potential you possess has note gone unnoticed by the seniors at Arkham." Doctor Reynolds paused, contemplating how to go on. "As you know, Doctor Smith here has been assigned to the Joker case… usually I would be the doctor working with her, but after my last session with _him_, it's just not possible."

Harleen felt her breath hitch slightly in her throat. She hadn't been working here all that long despite an impressive workload that seemingly suggested otherwise. Surely they weren't going to ask her to sit in session with one of the most depraved criminal minds in existence, a man she had never seen but who feared more than it was possible to put into words. She tried to reign in her feelings of horror as Doctor Reynolds continued, but she already knew where this going, and she didn't like it.

"Doctor Smith requires someone to sit in on her session with the Joker. The job is quite simple – you don't have to speak to him. All you have to do is study his outward mentality. Any nervous habits he might have, how his expression reacts to things that irk him, anger him, make him happy."

Harleen could only gape.

Doctor Reynolds continued quickly. "You've not been working here long Harleen and I can understand if you want to turn this particular job down. However rather than assign this to a senior member of staff I was hoping I could give it to you. It would be a great learning experience and would help you infinitely in terms of your work and career. I'm assigning this to you because I have every faith in how far you can go in this profession. As I said before, your talent hasn't gone unnoticed."

Again, Harleen could only gape. She felt flattered that they thought that highly of her. She enjoyed her profession, a rarity in itself and she had thrown herself diligently into her work as Arkham had gotten busier and busier. However the thought of sitting in session in the Joker made her heart try and escape through her mouth. Yes, he probably had one of _the_ most intriguing minds she was ever likely to encounter; however he was also the Joker. He had reduced Doctor Reynolds to nothingness and just because _she_ didn't have to speak to him didn't mean _he_ wouldn't speak to her.

"You'll get nowhere in this profession if you don't have any faith in your abilities Doctor Quinzel."

It was Doctor Smith who had spoken and for the first time since she'd entered to office, Harleen finally dared to look her in the eyes. They were bright blue and cat like, a parallel to her sharp, business like tone. Harleen guessed that this was a woman used to having authority.

She suddenly felt extremely cowardly. How could she hope to get anywhere in either her life or her profession if she shied away from the things that challenged her? The Joker was insane, intelligent and beyond terrifying. But he was also only a man, one who Harleen could not deny was thoroughly intriguing. Doctor Reynolds was right – this could be very beneficial to her. She took a deep breath.

"I accept your offer."

Harleen was sure she saw the ghost of a smile tug at Doctor Smith's lips. "Then go home right now and read these." She dropped three relatively slim files on top of the desk and pushed them over to Harleen. "I expect to see you back here at eight PM sharp. We begin at eight thirty."

* * *

When the nurses had approached him with a strait jacket and perhaps the biggest syringe he'd seen in all his life, his heart jumped with unparalleled joy. This meant only one thing – round two. Perhaps he'd play with this one a bit longer, to give him more time to savour all the little emotions, all the little weaknesses he could drag to the surface.

It made him long for a blade.

As they'd approached him cautiously with the strait jacket he'd smiled. "Now there's no need to ah, _worry_ about the attire." He gestured to white strapped contraption with an amused glance, before turning his attention to the syringe. "But if that thing comes any closer to me I promise you that I'll drive it so far into your eyes it will _po-p _out the other side of your skull." He smacked his lips together in a wet popping noise, emphasising the threat.

The nurse with the syringe had backed off while the other had tentatively wrapped him in the strait jacket. He'd hummed merrily as she went before turning to look her in the eye. "Want to know how I got these scars?" She'd shaken her head hurriedly and backed away, while the nurse with the syringe had made to advance on him again.

His mood darkened instantly. "Now _nursey, _I thought we had a, uh, deal. What did I say I'd do if that thing came near me? Hmm?" She'd just looked at him, terror in her eyes. "What. Did. I. _say_?" he'd practically roared it at her.

"You said… You said…"

"Oh spit it out bitch, we don't have all afternoon." He stood up, and despite not having any use of his arms, the nurse was visibly petrified. He knew security would come barging in any second in all their pompous glory, but he was pissed off, and he wouldn't have cared about security even if he wasn't.

"You said you'd drive it so far into my eye that… that it would come out the other side of my skull."

"And what part of that didn't get through that incredibly _thic-k _skull of yours, hmm? Just because I'm a little _tied up_ right now doesn't mean I won't find a way to ram that pathetic object into your pretty. Little. Face. Understand?"

She'd nodded frantically as security opened the cell, allowing her to scramble out in terror. The Joker added her to his list of people from Arkham he intended to kill before turning his attention to the security guard now at his door. "Ah, _Andrea_. So, who has come to _play_ today."

"You've got a session with a new psychiatrist."

He licked his lips in excitement. "Oh _goody_."

* * *

Harleen had done as she was told. She had gone home and read through the Joker's files, which had proved to be both useful and useless at the same time. They were useful because the scrawled notes from the doctors who had dealt with him upon his arrest provided her with a valuable insight into what he could be like. They were useless because besides the notes, there was no extra information on him. He had no other name, no history. There was no record of his birth, no dental files and no medical or mental history.

She frowned. He had to have a past. Everyone had a past. He couldn't have just suddenly sprung into existence. She picked up Doctor Reynolds notes on him and read through them quickly.

"_He's fast. Don't falter once or he'll be in your head before you even realise it. It's almost like he's psychic – he can deduce your weaknesses with an intelligence that is both awe-inspiring and terrifying. He brings your weaknesses to the surface without you even realising and he exploits them. He did the same to Gotham, but on a grand scale."_

Harleen swallowed. She considered herself a good psychiatrist – she had worked hard enough to be considered such. But the full realisation of what she had accepted washed over her as she read Doctor Reynolds' notes. She suddenly felt nervous. What were her weaknesses? How could she stop him exploiting them?

She guessed she was a little prideful and probably a little jealous. And sometimes she could be angry. Everyone was guilty of something. What if the Joker looked into her eyes and saw her past written there? Would he exploit that too? Would everyone know?

She bit her lip and with a glance at the clock, saw that it was time to get going. She felt like a lead weight had dropped in her stomach and it made her feel sick. This man was a master at inciting fear.

She arrived at eight PM sharp, the Joker's files slotted securely under her arm. Doctor Smith was waiting for her and Harleen was surprised when the woman gave her a genuine look of sympathy. "This is a big task to undertake Doctor Quinzel but try and look at it positively. Think of everything you can gain by doing this."

Harleen nodded. The words actually helped comfort her a little. She needed to look at the bigger picture, at all the good things that could come from undertaking such a responsibility. And above all, she needed to stay calm. If she walked in there afraid he'd see it straight away and he'd enjoy toying with it too.

The walk to the seclusion wing was longer than she had expected. She frequently forgot how big Arkham actually was. The journey there was more or less executed in silence, but as the large iron bars that sectioned the secluded patients from everyone else loomed into view, Doctor Smith stopped and turned to her.

"You know why Doctor Reynolds failed, don't you?"

Harleen paused and shook her head. Doctor Reynolds was a great psychiatrist and his failure with the Joker had left more than a few people surprised.

"He failed because he went in there with the hope of curing the Joker. He wanted to unwind that twisted mind of his and smooth it out. Try to understand this Doctor Quinzel – sometimes you meet a patient for whom there is no hope left. When faced with a situation like that, the only thing you can do is get a grasp on how their mind works and how they tick, and then use that to your advantage in order to keep them under control."

"I guessed that there was no hope left for a man like this. I mean, he's the Joker. He's unlike any criminal mind I've ever seen before."

Doctor Smith nodded. "Exactly. What's more is everyone thinks six inches of solid steel and some metal bars are enough to keep the Joker under control. Those people are foolish. Whatever happens Doctor Quinzel, do not let your guard down."

* * *

**A/N: **I re-wrote this three times and I'm still not sure how I feel about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Batman and all its characters are property of DC comics.

**A/N: **Anyone here ever read the Batman comic "Mad Love?" It's where a fair bit of my inspiration's coming from.

"Mad Love recounts the character's Harley Quinn origin. It reveals that Joker intended to twist her mind as a joke because her name was close sounding to the word harlequin, a French clown character, but in his joke he found some affection for her." – From Wikipedia.

"Harley's relationship with the Joker is one of the most complex in the DC Universe. While he often abuses her, sometimes near the point of death, there are as many instances that show a mutually affectionate side to their bizarre relationship." – From Wikipedia.

I love writing for their complex, sadistic 'relationship.' The possibilities of where to go with it are infinite :)

* * *

The first time Harleen saw the Joker her breath caught slightly in her throat for a number of reasons. The first reason was because it was the Joker: infamous, intelligent and indiscriminate in his desire to cause chaos and hurt people. The second reason was because of how _normal_ he looked. Well, almost normal, if you could take away the straight jacket and padded cell they were in.

The streaks of make up that were usually smeared haphazardly across his face had long since washed away leaving a pale, almost attractive skin tone in its wake. His hair was a tangle of nutty brown curls that hung in limp, irregular strands around his face, the light green dye having faded out not long after his arrival at the asylum.

Indeed the only thing that singled him out as different, as something rather out of the ordinary, were the long scars that stretched out from either side of his mouth, curving up towards his ears in a Glasgow smile. Their pale pink colour contrasted strangely against the white of his skin in a way that was baleful only because he was the Joker.

Then it hit her like tonne of bricks – that presence. That intoxicating, fear inducing aura that had been following her and everyone else all over the asylum since he'd arrived. It washed over her in waves and wrapped itself without permission around her body, analysing her, taunting her without saying anything.

She knew he was looking at her, and she was struck by the sudden urge to turn around and run right back out the door. Instead she kept her eyes focused on the wall opposite, her face unfaltering as she tried to keep her breath steady. He probably knew already how the sheer power of his presence affected her, but she would be strong against it. She had to be.

She sat down opposite him along with Doctor Smith, their backs to the door behind them where two guards and two rather frightened looking nurses were keeping watch. The Joker smiled happily at them and Harleen got the feeling that if he had not been retrained by a straight Jacket he would have had his hands interlaced politely in front of him.

"Good evening Doctor…" He glanced at Susan's name tag. "Smith." He smiled at her. No, Harleen thought, smile was not the right word. It was like a cross between a cruel leer and a mocking sneer. He then turned his attention to Harleen. "And _what_ do we have here?" Once again his eyes flicked to the name tag. "Doctor Quinzel." He smirked slightly and then sat back.

Harleen felt her fingers curl tightly around the clipboard she was holding. Her insides quickly followed suit and she wondered how this man, no longer with the plastered face of make up and the garishly terrifying suit, could incite such fear in her. He looked like a perfectly normal man. In fact when Harleen chanced another glance at his face, which was now fixed upon Doctor Smith, she saw that he had probably once been a very handsome man. The contours of his face were fine and strong, accentuated by sharp cheekbones, but on closer inspection the pale pallor of his skin was marred slightly, probably from years of cosmetic abuse and the scars. They suddenly seemed much more sinister in such close proximity.

She dropped her gaze again as the seemingly limitless silence stretched before her in all its intense glory, as though both he and Doctor Smith were waiting to see who would crack first. Harleen thought it would probably been her. She suddenly realised that her thoughts from earlier had been correct – their combined presence was enough to suffocate a person.

"So you refuse to accept medication. Any particular reason?" It was Doctor Smith who spoke first, although it seemed to be out of impatience rather than anything else. Harleen slowly brought her gaze upwards to study the Jokers face as he spoke.

The corner of his mouth jerked up into a strange, ragged half smile. "Now don't get me wrong, it's been so long since anything, uh, _interesting _has happened that I would have jumped at the chance for someone to stick a needle in me. But a needle full of sedatives? Well I wouldn't want to… _fight _on an uneven playing field."

"That would explain why you love to bait Batman so much then."

"Oh you're sharp, I like that. Made of stronger stuff than the last guy they sent in at least. Do you know what I told him?"

"Your evasive techniques might work with others but I'm not that stupid. Don't stray from the point."

"What point? Why are we _truly_ here Miss Smith? Because you think I'm sick and need curing? Or is it to _gra-ti-fy_ your ego? To make a point to yourself? To prove you can, uh, keep me under control."

Doctor Smith smiled. "Do you think I'm _that_ weak? We're not here to discuss me and my life. Quite the contrary. For once, it's all about _you_."

"No. I don't _think _you're that weak. I _know_ you are. All humans are. Despite their protestations, their testaments of righteous nobility, they are all weak, all afraid in one way or another. The true beauty of human nature lies in how truly _ugly_ it really is."

"So you commit acts of horrific violence and incite a reign terror merely to watch humans turn on each other?" Doctor Smith's tone was unfaltering.

"It's wonderful isn't it, watching them burn. Watching them _beg_ for their path-etic little lives."

Harleen scribbled lightly on the pad before her, taking note of the sarcastically sadistic half smile that lit up his face whenever he spoke of his motives or lack of therefore. The little spark that glinted in his dark eyes whenever he imagined watching people turn on each other in their terror, terror that he had caused.

There was a pause in which Doctor Smith wrote something down on her own clipboard.

"Want to know how I got these scars?"

Doctor Smith looked up slowly. "I've heard one particularly gruesome account of it already today. You don't seem to know how you got them yourself."

"Oh but I _d-o_. It's my life right? We're here to talk about me and my past and why you all seem to think I'm suffering from insanity. So how about a childhood _story._" He flicked his eyes over to Harleen, who accidentally met them as she brought her own up to study his face. "I think it's one Doctor Quinzel here will… _enjoy_."

Harleen felt her heart rate increase in irrational fear. She'd never spoken to anyone about her childhood. She'd never said anything. He couldn't be talking about that, he _couldn't _know. And yet, as though she had suddenly developed the gift of premonition, Harleen knew _exactly_ where his story was about to go.

"I had a father, just like everyone else has a father. But he wasn't a _dad_. Oh no, there are some _bi-g_ differences between being a father and being a dad. My _father_ liked to drin-k. The good nights were the ones when he never made it home. I used to hope he'd _died_ on the way.

"You see when he came home he'd be in a _foul_ mood. So foul things would get broken. Sometimes even my mother. One night he came home and I heard him _attack_ her, heard every little whimper, every gasp as he choked her and forced her into submission, every _scream_ as he hit her again and again and _again_…

His face was almost poker straight, but Harleen noticed that his head still swayed slightly, as though keeping it still was impossible, and occasionally his tongue would dart out to the scars around his mouth, licking at the lacerations with little wet noises. She tried to write it down on her clipboard, but her hand lacked the will to move. Instead she just stared at him. Straight into the depths of his eyes, which were so dark Harleen swore they were black. He knew the effect he was having on her. She knew he knew. And yet tearing her eyes away suddenly seemed like the biggest effort on Earth

"One day _daddy dearest_ comes home _even_ drunker than usual. He decides that mummy's time is up. She's _terrified_ as she huddles in the corner, sobbing away. She tells me to run and grabs a knife, trying to protect herself, trying to protect me.

"And then something happens. I get angry. _So,_ so angry. And I lunge at him, telling him not to _hurt_ mummy. And so he shifts. Suddenly, little old mummy who doesn't fight back isn't so interesting anymore. Punch bag number two has found his fight and daddy can't _wait _to break him down again.

"So he takes mummy's knife and he brings it towards me, telling me I'm a depressing mistake he wishes he'd never made. He tells me to cheer up, to _smile_. He takes my face between his hands, and the smell of his breath is bad enough in itself, a mixture of whiskey and stale cigarette smoke. But then do you know what he does, he puts the knife in my mouth, pushing the blunt end against the edges. I think he's bluffing, but it turns out he's _no-t_. Do you know what it feels like to have cold metal burning through your skin, ripping it open? To watch it bleed as you skin hangs off in pathetic little tatters, all the muscles visible underneath? Would you like me to show you?

Harleen could only stare in horrified silence as his lips curled up into a derisive smirk. "Did you like that story, Doctor Quinzel?"

He was mocking her. She wanted to shoot him down with the most scathing remark she could think of, but she couldn't seem to think at all. Not coherently. His presence seemed stronger than ever, like it was drowning her. She wanted to hide from him but she knew already that those eyes saw everything. He'd found her weakness and he'd exploited it for the entire world to see.

She suddenly felt ashamed.

"What a charming story." Doctor Smith replied stoically. "Last I heard you got those scars from a school trip gone horribly wrong."

He giggled. "You shouldn't always believe what others tell you Doctor. You should wait to get it straight from the horse's mouth."

"If I didn't know any better I'd say you're enjoying this." Doctor Smith's eyes met his, and Harleen was amazed at how his overpowering presence seemed to just roll off of her, at how she could just look into his eyes and not feel the effects.

"Until I learn how to fashion a bomb out of plastic, you and your, ah, _pathetic_ little excuse for a therapy session will have to do."

"Well I can't have you getting too excited on me now. Nurse, sedate him."

There was a hesitation by the door. "I… I…"

"Is there a problem, Nurse?" Doctor Smith turned her attention to the nurse behind her, who was quivering like a leaf. She rolled her eyes and turned to Harleen. "Harleen, sedate him."

The Joker's head snapped up, his attention suddenly on Harleen. And then he smiled at her, a slow, long, terrifying smile that almost literally stretched from ear to ear. Just as Harleen thought she couldn't feel any more uncomfortable he proved her wrong.

It took a moment for the request to reach her and process itself in her mind. It then struck her that the last thing she wanted to do was get any nearer to this man. She realised it would make her look weak, she realised he would exploit that, but he'd already exploited her tonight and she wasn't sure if she wanted to endure it anymore.

"Harleen?" Doctor Smith's voice sounded concerned and Harleen managed to offer her a weak smile. She stood up slowly, her legs shaking almost violently beneath her. She beckoned the nurse, who passed the syringe over with terrified eyes. Harleen tried to compose herself: she was a professional. She had done this countless times before. This time would be no different than any other time. From somewhere that sounded very far away she heard Doctor Smith's voice again. "Harleen?"

Harleen made her way towards him slowly, and his eyes never left her once. He seemed amused and she knew he could see her fear, could feel it. She knew he was probably enjoying it too.

She brought the sharp point gently down to his neck where she could see a vein running up towards his hairline, thick and blue with blood. It suddenly struck her as odd that he had something so human, that he had a heart to pump the blood around his body. It was in that moment, as her eyes connected with the pale vein on his neck that his hand connected rather viciously with her throat.

Before Harleen could even process what was happening he had grabbed her neck with surprising agility, his other arm grabbing the syringe from her and bringing it up towards her face. The room erupted into chaos as Harleen tried to grab at the hand on her neck and pull it off. It was useless. His grip was like a vice.

Doctor Smith was on her feet advancing. The security guards were pulling out their guns. One of the nurses was radioing for help. The nurse who had formerly been holding the syringe was trying to escape through the panic of everyone else, her fear having finally claimed her.

The Joker moaned as his grip tightened on Harleen's neck. _Chaos_. She groaned in pain as her hands went limp, the world suddenly becoming fuzzy as the oxygen to her brain was cut off.

"Let her go Joker or we'll shoot."

"What a clichéd choice of words." He licked at his scars, almost as though in pleasure when he spoke. "I mean if you shoot now..." He tightened his grip on Harleen's throat and she gasped out what little air she could in surprise. Dr Smith edged slightly closer and his grip tightened even further against the front of her neck. "Now Doctor, patience is a _virtue_."

He lifted the syringe into the air and brought it down hard, as though to slam it into Harleen's neck. The room descended into a little frenzy once more as one nurse stifled a small scream and the guards, along with Doctor Smith all attempted to bark orders at the same time. Harleen thought the world was starting to look a little lucid, mainly because she couldn't get enough oxygen to her brain but also because he was so close to her she could feel his breath on the top of her head.

She tensed as the needle came towards her, but just as it was about to make contact he stopped and began to trace it gently across the soft skin of her cheek, laughing as everyone froze in disbelief. Harleen tried to flinch away from his touch but his grip prevented her from doing a whole lot of anything. Instead she tried to relax in a vein effort to get some air through her windpipe

"Harleen Quinzel." The room feel silent as he said her name, all of them staring in shock. No shots could be fired while he had Harleen, and if anyone advanced Doctor Smith was almost certain that the syringe in his hand would end up somewhere very unpleasant. "That was you name, wasn't it?" She didn't answer. She _couldn't_ answer. He didn't like being ignored. "Wasn't. _It_." His tone became darker, harsher and Harleen could feel the deep rumble in his chest reverberating against her back.

Unable to speak she just nodded weakly, and to her surprise his death grip around her neck loosened a little, just enough so that she could breathe again. "Now. Let me make one thing very clear: I. Don't. Like. Sedatives." He traced the needle gently across the curve of her left eye socket. "You're a pretty girl _Harley_, you wouldn't want to end up like me, would you? No… so I suggest you do, as you're told."

She just nodded, waiting for him to push the thing in her eye, because that's where he seemed to be heading. She didn't really have any fear left to worry about it, not when she was this close to him. He had her. It was finished. "You're like an open book _Harley_, that little mind of yours is already so _close_ to the edge and I just want to ah, push. It. _Off_."

He took the syringe away from her face and dropped it to floor where it smashed, its dark yellow liquid tarnishing the white room in a bizarre dash of colour. The hand that had been holding it moved to restrain her arms, which made no attempt to stop him, while the hand on her neck moved up gently to her face, his fingers running down the pale contours of her cheek. "Oh _Harley_, aren't you going to make a noise for me?"

"My name's… Harleen…" She managed to gasp. She would later blame a lack of oxygen for her sudden burst of courage or the fact that she had resigned herself to her death as soon as he had grabbed her, but to her surprise he seemed to like it.

"Harleen. Quinzel. Harley. Quinn. _Harlequin_." He whispered it almost gently into her ear, before throwing his head back into a fit of cackles. "Now what to do with you, my little _Harlequin_. Hmm… too soon. Don't want to be _prem-a-ture_, now, do we? No… not yet…"

He pushed her roughly to the floor and she landed in a heap. She felt like she couldn't move. Her legs didn't want to obey the command from her brain. Her body just didn't want to respond. Security had moved past her before she could even process it, his strait jacket in hand. She wondered how and when he had gotten out of it, if he had ever been in it all.

"Guess nursey didn't tie the straps tight enough." He laughed as they lead him away, although to where Harleen had no idea, because she was sure that this was his cell.

"Harleen… Harleen are you alright?" Doctor Smith was knelt beside her, her voice soft and a world away from its usual brisk tone. "Harleen… I'm so sorry…"

It was the last thing she remembered before the world went dark.

* * *

**A/N: **Lots of Joker here, did I write him ok?


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Batman and all its characters are property of DC comics.

**A/N:** A huge thank you to **ForbiddenIntimacy **who beta read this for me. Her help was brilliant, constructive and very useful :) And of course, thank you to everyone who reviewed it and added it to their favourites, so on so forth.

* * *

It had been one hour and forty seven minutes since the Joker's first therapy session with Doctor Smith had ended. He had been chained to a chair, bound by handcuffs and held at gunpoint while they cleared out his cell, something that hadn't failed to amuse him. His amusement had only intensified further when he'd turned to see one of his personal security guards carrying Harleen's unconscious body in his arms. It had been a fun therapy session.

But he wasn't satisfied. He could _never_ be satisfied while he was in here. Toying with his new psychologist and the pretty little Harlequin at her side had helped relieve some of the tension, but it hadn't yet been released. Not as it should have been. It was all just too… _tame_.

And that was when, precisely one hour and fifty two minutes after his session had ended, an idea began to bloom in his mind.

Harleen Quinzel interested him. With a name like that she was bound to. But there was something about her, something in those blue eyes of her. Harley was _guilty_. He wondered why nobody else could see it. She had it written all over her face. Harley had _secrets_, and those secrets would be her downfall. He had told her that. All it takes is a little push. And he would push her. He would push her until she fell off of the edge and tumbled into oblivion.

He wondered what it was, this thing she had that she was so intent on keeping hidden. He could tell she had a colourful past, one probably spattered with misfortune. It was written in those eyes of hers that wouldn't meet his. They held a glimmer of something sad, of something clandestine. He loved it, and it only added to her appeal. Maybe she had a history of abuse? Or maybe she had committed some kind of crime she wanted to keep secret? Maybe she was guilty of fraud.

He highly doubted the last one, but the previous two were definite maybes. She held herself in that defensive way that suggested a severe lack of self esteem and something to hide. He didn't particularly understand why a girl that looked like she did would want to hide. Her lack of confidence made him lean more towards the idea of abuse, but whatever had happened he would find out. He would peel her back, layer by layer, until he found the real Harleen, and then he'd use it to tear her apart. Maybe even literally.

* * *

Harleen woke slowly to a fuzzy room and a constant throbbing in her temples. As she gradually drifted back into consciousness a flicker of white face paint and serrated scars flitted quickly across the edges of her dreams and with a start her eyes snapped open. The room was nebulous and she felt her head surge as the ridiculously bright lights of the Arkham staff room flooded her eyes. She hastily tried to push herself up, panic momentarily taking her over, but a strong pair of hand pushed her shoulders gently back down into the sofa.

"How are you feeling?" It was Doctor Smith. Her tone was softer than usual and Harleen was sure she could hear an underlying tone of what was possibly genuine concern.

She turned her head slowly to try and face the woman as she groaned. "I feel like I've got the mother of all hangovers… what happened?"

"You fainted from shock. It was just your body's natural way of dealing with the trauma of the attack. We got you medical attention straight away, but the nurses told us your vitals were fine and that we were best just to let you come round on your own."

"What a useless body."

A silence lapsed between them. Harleen wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep, but she had a feeling the night was far from over. In fact, she had a feeling that this entire thing was far from over, but before she could dwell on it Doctor Smith spoke again.

"He's taken a liking to you, you know."

Harleen tried to sit back up again and this time was successful. "Who has?" She rubbed her eyes as they adjusted to the harsh lighting, her drowsiness slowly subsiding and giving way to coherent thought.

"Who do you think, Harleen?"

With the recollections of the accident in mind, she was suddenly very much awake. "Hmm. Funny enough those who like you tend not to put sharp objects that close to your eyes."

"Harleen… I'm going to try and be straight with you on this. You see how we can use this situation to our advantage… don't you?"

"Not exactly… I mean correct me if I'm wrong but he's the Joker. He doesn't like anyone. I don't see how attacking me is showing 'a liking.'"

Doctor Smith sighed and removed her glasses, placing them in her front pocket. "When I say he's taken a liking, I don't necessarily mean in a literal sense. He saw something in you that obviously appeals to his violent nature… and if I'm honest, I saw it too. So… what did he see, Harleen?"

Harleen felt her blood momentarily run cold before hot anger swept into her veins, warming her back up again. "He didn't _see_ anything. After everything that's happened tonight why is it even of importance? Are you expecting me to go back in there after in order to help you crack your new favourite little nut? If so you've got another thing coming because I'm not going anywhere near him again, especially not in order to be your little lab rat; how much humiliation am I supposed to endure!? I don't care how intriguing a patient he is. My head is throbbing and I want nothing more than to go home and sleep."

Harleen didn't recognise her own voice; it sounded sharp and twisted and a far cry from her usually chirpy demeanour. She would later blame her outburst against a senior staff member on irrationality and tiredness but right now she felt perfectly justified in her feelings and she would be damned if she ever went near that man again.

To her surprise Dr. Smith seemed completely unfazed by Harleen's temper and her tone was as brisk and placid as usual when she replied: "Somehow I have a feeling your own curiosity will overcome you. In the meantime, go home and sleep. It's late."

Harleen complied, storming out of the staffroom without so much as a word to her superior. She was fuming mad; she wanted nothing more than her bed, yet somewhere inside, she was still wired from her session with the Joker. She knew sleep would be a long time in coming. As she stomped through the reception hall, her nose caught a strange scent that momentarily distracted her. It passed as quickly as it came; she dismissed it irritably.

She bowed her head against the cold of the October evening as she sought out her car. She had never been more grateful for it than she was on nights like these.

Arkham was in the very heart of the Narrows and while it was bad enough in the day time; at night it was terrifying. Even after everything people were doing to try and save Gotham's soul the Narrows remained unscrupulous: a haven of shadows that thrived with a constant throng of criminal activity.

Harleen relied on her little rust bucket to get her home safe and unnoticed when she left work this late. Most of the time she managed to blend unseen into the darkness.

Her apartment lay outside the Narrows boundaries but that didn't serve to make it any safer. People who were either brave or stupid enough to chance walking to work were usually mugged or killed. Even though things were slowly getting better, Gotham as a whole was still far from safe.

The short walk from her car to the front doors of the apartment building was enough to put Harleen on her guard. She knew full well that the criminals of Gotham had no care for whether property was private or not.

She glided into her apartment, flicking on the television as she went. Again, as she moved to turn on a lamp, the strange smell from the asylum caught her nose. It was odd – spicy with an underlying familiarity that she couldn't put her finger on. It was fleeting; just like the first time and in her tiredness Harleen thought nothing more of it. Instead, she flopped down onto her old, comfortable couch and turned her attention to the midnight news.

"_Batman apprehended seven criminals and left them in front of Gotham Central Police Station today for Commissioner Gordon to retrieve. Reports say that the men were attempting to import drugs into Gotham City, a position supposedly left open in the city's underground crime rings since the arrest of the infamous Jonathon Crane. The actions of the Batman are perplexing the police – he is wanted on three counts of murder, yet despite supposedly falling from grace he continues to act the part of the vigilante. So citizens of Gotham are forced to ask: is the Batman our caped crusader or a mad menace? And are the city's officials keeping us in the dark on the status of what was once our most prized protector?"_

"I knew this whole Batman thing wasn't what it seemed." Harleen muttered as she hauled herself up, making her way into the apartment's small kitchen. As she busied herself with the kettle it happened again – that foreign scent breezed past her. She stopped what she was doing and hesitantly plucked at the collar of her blouse, running her nose gently across the fabric.

All down the left side of her shirt neckline was that unfamiliar, piquant scent. Harleen was momentarily puzzled before she realized, with a twisting lurch of her stomach, exactly what it was. It was _him_. She smelt like him. Even after their session had long since finished, he had made sure she wouldn't forget him. Harleen was in no doubt that he had done it on purpose; she put nothing past him.

She tore at her clothes in revulsion, discarding them on the kitchen floor before running to the bathroom and turning the shower on to the hottest possible setting. The water scalded her skin, but it still didn't feel like enough. She still felt stained. Only when she'd scoured herself and let the water turn her skin a startling shade of pink did she feel safe enough to step out of the shower and chance a sniff at her skin. It smelt like soap. Satisfied, but still completely and utterly irked, she had finished off, returning to the crumpled heap of clothes on her kitchen floor.

She was struck by the sudden urge to burn them, but with her job only just beginning to make her money than she was forced to spend, obliterating them was not an option. Instead she tentatively picked them up, holding them at arms length as she trotted to her washing machine. She threw the tainted clothes in and twisted the dial on high, poured in more soap powder than was really necessary and was about to slam the door shut when a morbidly curious urge overcame her.

Cautiously, as though the clothes might jump out of the tumbler and viciously attack her, Harleen brought her face nearer to the open door of the machine and inhaled. It was still there. Him. His strange, strong, smell. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but it was definitely unique. It was him.

She shook her head and slammed the door shut, hitting the faulty start button repeatedly until the old machine spluttered into life. Her shower had left her warm and cosy, which, in turn, had left her drowsy. She made no objection as her legs led her instinctively towards her bedroom. She fell unceremoniously onto the bed and crawled underneath the covers. Yet, despite her exhaustion and apparent listlessness, sleep would not grace her with its presence. Instead, she had lain awake for several hours, the day's events rolling continuously in her head.

Even if Doctor Smith just wanted to use her to crack the Joker it could work. Wasn't that what Doctor Smith had been implying? Harleen could use it to her advantage. As her college professor had told her – she was smart, and in more ways than one. If Harleen could help do this she could do anything. She could become someone.

Her mind circled around itself for what felt like hours, her conflicting thoughts eventually leading her into an uneasy, but much needed sleep. She didn't know if her resolve came when she was awake or in her dreams, but either way she made it. Harleen Quinzel had always accomplished what she set out to do and that wasn't going to change now.

* * *

The high pitched ringing of the phone shrieked through the apartment, instantly cracking Harleen from the cocoon of sleep she was woven in. A glance out of the window confirmed her immediate suspicions that she had overslept – the morning sun had long since risen and the October sky was azure and faultless. A quick look at her alarm clock confirmed that she had indeed overslept by a good four hours.

Harleen threw herself from the bed, her legs getting caught in her blankets and on random articles of clothing as she panicked and ran for the phone. She wrenched it from the receiver with surprising force and jammed it almost violently against her ear, managing a breathless hello to what she hoped was one very forgiving boss.

"Hello?"

"Ah Harleen, we were worried about you, is every-" It was Dr Reynolds.

"I am so sorry, I will _never_ be late for work like this again! I know it's unacceptable and-"

"Harleen-"

"And even if I have to work for the next forty eight hours solid to prove my worth-"

"Harleen!"

She paused. "Yes?"

"Don't worry about being late, I'm not entirely sure if Doctor Smith expected you turn up to work at all today, although if you don't intend to I think she will lose all hope for you."

Harleen cringed as she remembered her attitude from the previous evening and was suddenly incredibly grateful to find she still had a job at all. She had treated one of the most revered psychologists in America in the manner of a four year old having strop, and she immediately felt incredibly ashamed. "She still has hope, huh?"

"Indeed. In face she needs to have some hope left in you if she ever hopes to garner any success with the Joker."

Harleen sighed. "Is this whole thing still going where I think it's going?"

"I'm not entirely sure. She conducted another session with him this morning but it was very brief. He refuses to co-operate in any way unless you're there."

Harleen felt her stomach drop but managed to compose herself quickly. "Erm… If I had to speculate, I'd guess that she wants me to sit in on one of her sessions with him again?"

"Almost."

"Almost?"

"Look, Harleen. Why don't you come in work say around twelve and we'll discuss it properly then. This is not something I feel comfortable arranging on the phone. I have to go now, I have a patient, but don't be worried Harleen."

He hung up abruptly and Harleen continued clutching the phone to her ear for several moments before returning it gently back to its receiver. Don't be worried? What kind of parting words were they? Sure, the Joker was terrifying and worried her endlessly, but to finish a phone conversation with the words "Don't be worried?" Harleen suddenly felt like she had every unknown reason to worry.

She tried not to dwell on it as she dressed for work. She was in no hurry anymore so she took her time about the apartment, switching on the television for company as she made breakfast. The eleven o'clock news was on and once again, Batman and Gotham's war on crime were the number one news stories. Was the masked man Gotham's protector or its persecutor? Did he really kill three men? And if he didn't, then who did? It was always the same, and Harleen found it amazing that people sill managed to have any hope left in the system or Batman.

She sighed into her cereal bowl, her concern for herself drowning out the concern of the citizens on the television. She had a feeling in her gut that told her today was going to be an interesting one; when she left for work, she found that a party of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach without her permission. She didn't understand why and she had no time to dwell on it either. She blamed in on one of the many predispositions of human nature as she locked the door and made her way out into the orange glow of the autumn sunshine. It was a beautiful day. It seemed a shame that she was probably going to spend a large majority of it holed up in a windowless room.

Doctor Reynolds was waiting for her when she arrived at Arkham. She abandoned her coat at reception and followed him into his office, where she took a seat at his desk. He seemed sheepish and rather tired but Harleen dismissed it when he gave her his customary warm smile. "Harleen, I'm glad your first brush with a violent psychopath didn't scare you off coming back."

"After the way I spoke to Doctor Smith I'm amazed I was allowed back at all."

"She works with the criminally insane Harleen; she's probably suffered far worse." A short silence fell over them during which Dr Reynolds surveyed her with interest. "Harleen… I underestimated the Joker and it seems, however unconsciously it might have happened, that you did too." Harleen opened her mouth to object but Doctor Reynolds lifted his hand up to silence her before continuing. "He's a startling man, Harleen. I know that. But in my session, he just wanted to see if he could ward me off or sicken me with his stories; he seems to have a genuine interest in you. I doubt it lies in the person you are; I assume his interest was piqued at the though of breaking you down and tormenting you. Dr Smith said-"

As if on cue the door swung open and Doctor Smith walked briskly in. "I see you began without me." She glanced at Harleen who had the grace to bow her head in shame.

"I'll allow you to take over." Dr Reynolds offered her a seat but Dr Smith shook her head.

"What I have to say won't take long. Harleen… about yesterday. Firstly I apologise for putting in you in that situation… and I apologise for the fact that I am going to ask you to do it again. As I've said before, he refuses to cooperate in the absence of your presence. Although, taking the events of yesterday into consideration, it only confirms that he dislikes cooperating all together."

She paused before she continued, as though considering how best to go on. "I think we would achieve the greatest results on this case if you were to interview him alone Harleen. A proper psychiatry session in which you record what he says and take notes on his behaviour and responses. Then I can analyze it afterwards and we can compare what we discovered concerning that psyche of his. Ultimately I'm suggesting we work together on this case."

Harleen wasn't entirely sure how to respond. The thought of working with Doctor Smith both excited and flattered her in equal measure and if it had been any other patient Harleen would have been overjoyed, but at the same time she knew Doctor Smith was only asking for her help because she needed it rather than because she wanted it. It made Harleen feel angry at her all over and again."

"Dr Smith… firstly _I_ apologise for the way I spoke to you last night. It was unacceptable, however I'm forced to question if you're suggesting a partnership because you _want_ my help or because you _need_ it. There's a big difference between the two and I don't particularly want to sit and be tormented by that man again for the sake of your ego."

Harleen!" Dr. Reynolds gasped, surprised at her audacity, but Dr. Smith simply raised her hand to silence Harleen from further insult and continued to speak

"I _want_ your help because I _need_ it in order to finish up here Harleen. In your educational records it says you got into Gotham University on a gymnastics scholarship and yet you ended up getting a PhD in psychology. Why? My guess is because you wanted to help people or because you wanted respect. Maybe it was both. If you assist me on this case you'll be helping not only yourself and your career but the whole of Gotham too. You'll also garner a lot of attention for you work. This is the Joker after all. If you don't want to do this for me, then at the very least consider doing it for yourself."

Harleen dropped her gaze again. Dr Smith was just as good as everyone said. Harleen," imposed Dr. Reynolds, "No one can make you do anything you don't want to, but your assistance would be of great benefit to everyone. Psychologists have to work together to tackle cases similar to the Joker's all the time. Don't feel like you're being used; your help is important."

Harleen met his fatherly gaze across the desk and sighed. "Would I be completely alone with him?"

Doctor Smith replied. "We were considering having guards in the room but we think it could have a detrimental effect on the session. They'll be stationed right outside the door and at the first sign of a struggle they'll be there. The room will also be equipped with a panic button that sends out a silent alarm. The guard's guns will be loaded with sedative shots so that if he takes you as a hostage – because we put nothing past him – you'll be safe if they're forced to shoot you too."

Harleen pressed her lips together. "He scares me, but he completely fascinates me too. This is one of those once in a career type things, isn't it?"

"Some might even say you were lucky to have this opportunity Harleen." Doctor Reynolds replied.

She sighed. "…I'll do it then."

* * *

The room was sparse, and so white it almost hurt his eyes. He was beginning to culture a severe distaste for the colour white. It was everywhere. All the rooms were white, his light cotton scrubs were white, the doctors' jackets and nurses' dresses were all _white_. They recoiled away from colour in the same manner they recoiled away from him. He wondered which they feared more.

He rattled his hand cuffs irritably. Since the incident with Harleen they had apparently given up on strait jackets (which he was grateful for, because they also happened to be white) and had reverted back to the more traditional method of cuffing him. They were so tight the sharp metal dug uncomfortably into his skin, leaving angry red grooves across his pale flesh. It made him smile.

There was movement outside the heavy door and it clicked open with a loud buzzing noise. His curiosity was momentarily piqued but withered and died almost instantly as Dr Smith appeared. He relaxed back in his chair, a look of complete disdain evident across his face.

"Ah, Doctor. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Dr Smith noticed the flat tone of his voice and the uninterested flicker of his eyes over her. He was bored and under stimulated, which meant he was most likely in a bad mood. She didn't sit down opposite him but remained standing by the door. "I've come to inform you that I'm passing your treatment over to another psychologist."

His demeanour changed immediately, just a she had expected to. He already knew that she had given into his demands, that she had given him Harleen. It made her feel weak, even though she had long since come to the conclusion that there was no other option. She had always done whatever it took and now would be no different.

"Oh wonderful. I'm glad you finally saw some, uh, sense." He dragged the sentence out with a smile and Dr Smith didn't miss the underlying tenor of victory in his words. He'd won and he knew it.

"Indeed. Dr Harleen Quinzel will be along within the next ten minutes." She paused, a small smile momentarily gracing her hardened features. "Do not think for a second that you can beat us at our own game." She knew that talking to him in such an informal manner was probably a mistake but she wanted him, no she _needed_ him to know that he wouldn't to get to them; that ultimately, she would win.

She turned to leave and he jingled his handcuffs at her in goodbye. She knew he was smirking, just as she knew that her words rolled off of him like water. She decided to ignore him.

When she found Harleen all she could do was offer the girl a comforting smile. She was visibly nervous but Dr Smith could see the resolve in her eyes and it eased her guilt, if only slightly.

Harleen knew she was being sent in there as a pawn, as a sacrifice per se, but she was intelligent and determined. Doctor Smith could offer her no words that had not already been exchanged, and so instead she settled for squeezing the girls shoulder.

Harleen nodded as she got to her feet, brushing the non existent dust off of her skirt. The walk down the sterile white corridors to his cell was far too short and before she could even process it she was stood in front of the thick, metal door, the only thing that separated her from him. There were four guards stationed there, all of them looking blankly into the distance. They were nothing like the usual security personnel stationed at Arkham; they were huge and frightening in their silence.

Harleen got the feeling that their air of intimidation wouldn't even brush across_ his_ insane surface. She wondered how one man could possibly be so unafraid. He feared neither life nor death. He simply existed.

She took a deep breath, straightened her posture into one she hoped exuded confidence and pulled the door open.

There he was, back straight as usual, his gaze burning straight through her. She was far from impervious to it, but she had known it was coming. Without faltering she strode into the cell, dropped the few files she was carrying onto the narrow table and then sat down opposite him.

A long silence passed between then as he studied her with something that was possibly interest. He was subtly scrutinising in his inspection of her outward demeanour, and it made Harleen's insides squirm. She fixed her blank gaze on the wall behind him until eventually; the silence was broken by his afflicted drawl.

"Ah, _Harley_. So you couldn't stay away, hmm? Couldn't _bear_ not to see me again. Whatever will Dr Smith say when she finds out?"

Harleen remained impassive. She knew from Dr Reynolds how vulgar he could resort to being, how far he would go to get under her skin. She averted her attention momentarily to the small recording machine on her left and flicked it on before turning back to her patient. "I believe I'm back by popular demand."

"Oh I see; you're just the pawn of this particular game." He smirked as he glanced towards the tape recorder. "They sent you in to uh, interview me and then you'll let them do all the hard work with their little tapes. They always did go about things the difficult way."

"And who else do you expect they send in when you refuse to co-operate with anyone but myself?" Her tone was brisk, professional and it surprised even Harleen herself.

"I didn't _expect_ a group of people who are supposedly intelligent to be so unbelievably stupid. You over think everything. I try to play a game, to get you guessing, to make you work, but in the end I just have to tell you the answers, don't I? My faith in people dwindles every time I'm forced into their company."

Harleen jotted something down on her clip board. "I fail to see how that's even remotely relevant. There's no game here Joker, just the ones you like to believe your playing."

"Trying to belittle me won't work Harley." His tone was ever so slightly sharper, but Harleen didn't miss it. "Why are you here hm? Because you're following their pathetic, little rules. You're just doing as they tell you. How… weak of you."

"I wasn't forced here." Harleen replied a little more hotly than she had intended. "I'm here off of my own accord. I'm here because… you don't scare me." It was a blatant lie, but it was said with such conviction that for a moment, even Harleen believed it. She wasn't sure if it would get the response she wanted from him but for a moment he was certainly quiet.

And then he burst into raucous peels of laughter. "Oh, you're a little bit better than I thought Harley." He leered at her from across the table. "But after our last session together I think we both know that's not true. I do scare you Harlequin, and you must like it otherwise you wouldn't have come back for more."

"You're just a man, Joker. Despite everything you might like to believe, ultimately you are only human." She knew he didn't place himself in the same category as other humans, and she knew to compare him to one would wound his pride considerably.

So she was surprised when he remained completely unfazed by her attempts to knock him down. He simply smiled at her, the jagged scars around his mouth twisting and pulling as he spoke. "And look at what humans do to themselves Harley. Despite their protestations of righteous nobility, ultimately they are just animals. They make rules to try and keep themselves in order, to try and keep peace in the World, but it never works. Never. People kill, rape, slaughter, steal and then ultimately try to destroy each other. That's human nature, and I just like to help it along on its merry little way."

"You only say such things because you have no faith left in humanity."

He threw his head back and laughed at this, while Harleen attempted to remain as unmoved by him as he was by her. As much as she hated to admit it, there was a truth to his words that hit slightly closer to home than was comfortable.

"I like this new found confidence on you Harley, it's sexy. It makes me want to touch you and kill you all at the same time. It's a wonderful mixture of urges. Maybe one day I'll indulge in both. Maybe even at the same time." His tone was filled with mock mirth; before it fell back into its usual slow, sarcastic intone. "But I can see it in you Harley, it's written right across your pretty. Little. Face. I don't know how you can sit here spewing your hypocritical piles of bullshit at me when it's rather obvious you have about as much time for humanity as I do."

Harleen felt her blood turn to ice in her veins. He had found something and she knew he would only gnaw away at her like a dog would a bone, until he found exactly what he was looking for. Weakness. He was quick, intelligent, and in some completely perverse way, he was almost charming. He smiled at her as he brought his bound hands up from under the table and clicked the 'stop' button on the tape recorder.

"Harley, you look like you've seen a ghost." He smiled at her, a smile that lit up his face and made his eyes sparkle with a sadistic blood lust. "Now Harley, nobody's listening and I can see all those little secrets in your eyes. All that bottled up hatred and guilt. Why don't you tell me what's haunting you?"

Harleen gaped at him for a few moments in complete shock as he leered at her from across the table. "I have nothing to hide." She had intended for her voice to be sharp; filled with conviction, but instead it came out small and fragmented.

"_Everybody_ has something to hide Harley. Everybody has broken the rules at some point or another. That's why they're pointless. I mean you probably think you've done something really bad, but how many counts of murder am I here on? Twenty seven was it?"

She looked up at him through her eyelashes and he grinned in satisfaction at the tears he could see there. "Nice try." Her voice was stronger now as she gathered back her resolve. "But I won't let you win, nor will I let you break me down."

"Oh _Harley_, I don't want to break you down. I just happen to be good at recognising like minded people."

"I'm _nothing_ like you."

"No? I think you're in denial Harley. Why don't you tell me what it is you've got to hide, and then we'll see how truly different we are."

Harleen bit her bottom lip before reaching for the tape recorder again in a vain attempt to turn it back on. As her fingers brushed against the black plastic button his hands covered her own and firmly pulled it away. "You don't want the whole world to know what a guilty little girl you are, do you Harley?"

She was surprised at the sudden contact, and surprised further still when she didn't immediately pull her own hand away. His own hands were cold and as pale as the rest of him, but they were also weathered, well worn hands. They were so… normal. Harleen wanted nothing more than to snatch her hand back and flee the room as he stood up. He leaned over the narrow table towards her, but something, perhaps a fearful curiosity, kept her securely rooted to the spot.

That intoxicating scent of his filled her senses as he got closer to her. It was a hundred times stronger than it had been on her clothes and it almost made her nauseously dizzy, despite it actually being somewhat pleasant.

He was now bent over her sitting form, casting a long shadow across her pale face. He spoke softly, almost gently when he addressed her next. "Now Harley… why don't you tell me what happened?"

* * *

**A/N: **And that's where we leave it for today. This last bit hasn't been beta read as it was added on the suggestions of my beta reader. So if it's crappily written in comparison to the rest of the chapter then I apologise profusely. Next chapter: more insight into the Joker's head and exactly where he's going with Harley.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Batman and all its characters are property of DC comics. Let me take this opportunity to also say, I'm making no money out of this.

**A/N:** Sorry for the long time between updates. School has recently restarted and already the work is piling on. Also, my laptop exploded spectacularly in an array of blue sparks (it was almost pretty…) which means I now have to write on the home computer, which is shared with various other house members. Hence, time between updates will vary.

A big thank you to **Forbidden Intimacy**, who once again took the time to beta this baby for me :)

* * *

He was terrifyingly tall when he stood over her like that. She considered standing up herself in an attempt to even the playing field, but she could already tell it would be futile. At five feet three inches tall, Harleen knew her tactics were limited when it came to physical intimidation.

She considered using her free hand to press the panic button she knew was under the table. He would probably hurt her for so blatantly defying him, but it would be over in a matter of seconds. She could see the shiny plastic edge of the red switch poking out from under the metal, yet she felt no desire to reach for it. Instead she averted her attention back to his hand, which was still placed firmly over her own.

"I believe it's my job to find out all about you, not the other way around." Her voice was low, but as determined as she could manage with him in such close proximity.

"Hmm, well… my father liked to beat me. Is that a start?" His tone was laced with a sarcasm that was difficult to miss.

"You're a pathological liar. Nothing you say can be trusted."

"Then why are you here if you can't believe anything that comes out of my mouth? Doesn't this seem a little, uh, pointless to you? Or..." he tightened the grip on her hand, causing her heart to skip a beat as she tensed, "Maybe you're here because you like it when I hurt you."

She gasped in pain as her fingers cracked painfully together under his strength. He forced the digits steadily back against her knuckles as far as they would go, pushing them against their natural flexibility. Harleen managed to force out a "Stop!" To her immediate surprise, he complied immediately.

"You didn't like that, so I suppose it was the former. So, what do you have to prove, Harleen?"

She finally pulled her hand out from under his clutches, wincing feebly in pain. The ache slowly subsided, flaring hot anger licking like flames at the edges of her fear. "What the hell is it to you, anyway?" She snapped it in an irritable fashion, yet some part of her was genuinely curious.

He wouldn't let the subject drop. Harleen had the strong suspicion that they would make no headway in this session until she gave in to his demands.

"Right now, it is everything." He smiled at her in that sadistic way of his, slowly withdrawing back into his seat. The sheer intensity of his unrelenting eyes caused her to

The meaning behind his words clicked everything into place immediately. Doctor Reynolds had been right—having something to toy with, to torment was everything to the Joker, whether it be a guilt-ridden psychiatrist, or Gotham as a whole.

Right now she was his sole focus, every inch of her. A small part of her felt flattered, but it barely registered as the larger, more responsible aspect of Harleen's personality took over. She needed to escape and evaluate.

"I think that concludes out sessions for today." She said as she clicked the tape out of recorder and gathered her files together. The silence that engulfed them was making her impatient and hyper aware; it wasn't like him to be so quiet. He was still smiling at her, a small glimmer of genuine amusement invading the usual truculent coldness of his brown eyes.

Again he had won, and again, he knew it.

She paused for a moment to study him before turning for the door. His expression remained unchanged. Deciding that she would not let his behaviour get to her, she ignored him, until finally, just as she placed her hand upon the heavy metal door; his voice shattered the unspoken tension that had been growing between them.

"You'll come back, you know."

It was a statement void of all doubt.

"Unfortunately, it's my duty to. But if I'm lucky, you might die before then." Her tone was biting, almost acidic in its denial of his words. He remained unmoved. Harleen wondered why he failed to respond to such blatant insolence when usually, those who crossed him in any way were punished accordingly.

"In a padded cell with no sharp objects? That would be disappointing, wouldn't it?"

She left without turning back, though she knew the encounter had left him amused. Undoubtedly, he would still be smiling in that maniacal way of his as she walked out.

Her hand still throbbed slightly beneath the tightly clutched files. She scowled at the security guards as she clicked the heavy door shut. "Be more vigilant. The door has a window for a reason." Her words were sour and spiked with anger as she stormed off down the corridor.

Her mood had crashed spectacularly, the anxiety she had been experiencing previous to their session giving way to an irrational anger she didn't quite understand.

Many years later, she would look back upon the encounter with bizarre fondness, as she knew it was her denial slowly settling in as he stripped away the first layers of her defence and inserted himself like a twisted poison into her veins.

* * *

Dr Smith replayed the last recorded line of the tape again. "_Maybe I'll indulge in both, maybe even at the same time._"

"Why do I have feeling this isn't where the conversation ended?"

"Because that's not where the conversation ended." Harleen replied a little sullenly.

"You turned the tape recorder off?"

"No. He did. And then he refused to let me turn it back on."

"And where did the conversation go after that?"

Harleen sighed, slumping back a little in her chair. "The usual: his love for anarchy and distaste for rules and order. I think though…well I think I may be onto something, but I'm not sure how to play it."

Dr Smith surveyed Harleen with interest over the top of her glasses. "Elaborate."

"Well…until I give him something, some kind of leverage over me, he won't give anything. It's like if I give him something he can use against me, then he'll give me something we can use in return."

"If you want my honest opinion, I think there's a catch. With someone that fiendishly intelligent, there's always a catch."

"I thought as much." Harleen replied slowly. "With a game like the one he's trying to play, he'll definitely have the upper hand. He'll make sure of that. And if he starts to lose, then he'll certainly have an ace in the hole."

"But for us to ultimately succeed, we'll have to play by his rules for a while."

Harleen nodded. "Exactly,"

"What worries me," Dr Smith replied, "Is how far he may be willing to go. He's looking to break you down Harleen, and he has no limits. He'll do whatever it takes; vigilance and intelligence are the keys to winning this game, although it will be far from easy."

"Especially considering how much that man hates rules." Her mouth twisted into an odd sort of half smile. "This feels like an insurmountable task."

"Nothing's impossible, Harleen."

Harleen made a face. "He was oddly…nice isn't the right word, but he wasn't as violent with me as the first time. I didn't notice until after he had turned the tape recorder off, but he was…patient with me."

"What do you mean?"

"Well I showed blatant impertinence on several occasions, and he didn't seem to mind. It didn't look as though it bothered him in the slightest. I'm not sure what to make of it."

"That's interesting." Dr Smith pursed her lips. "It sounds as though he's trying to lull you into a false sense of security. After all, it's common knowledge that those who cross him rarely live to tell the story. Don't be taken in by it. Just…tolerate it."

Harleen agreed, falling back onto her seat. Slugging down some coffee, she attempted to counteract her mood swing. In the meantime, she advised all those with a shred of sense to keep their distance from her for several hours at most.

They had obliged, giving her space to reflect on her first official meeting with the criminal psychopath and the time to make more notes. She intended to formulate a conclusive analysis she could present to Dr Smith.

She had been allowed to sit in the office of an absent official as she worked, shutting herself away from the hustle and bustle of Arkham life. Focusing on something, even though it was him, had helped clear her head considerably. By the time darkness had started to descend over Gotham, her report was finished.

The man, Harleen had thought in a moment of tiredness, was like a Rubik's Cube: difficult, irritating and colourful – but not necessarily impossible.

She and Dr. Smith had spent several hours going over the various observations Harleen had made, attempting to devise a plan they could set into motion against him. It was arduous work that kept leading back to the same thing: in order to make headway, Harleen was going to have to play the game. To receive, she must first give.

The notion caused a sensation of nauseating sickness to well up inside her. Her past was riddled with secrets she had never shared with another living soul, secrets that made up a good portion of the woman she was now.

The thought of sharing such an abstruse history with the Joker, of all people, made her skin crawl in fear. He would know how to transform it into a deadly weapon. He would most likely use it as a knife with which to tear her apart.

Dr. Smith sensed her fear. She suggested they weave an intricate, false story for Harleen to tell him, and although it seemed to present a small glimmer of hope to the young psychiatrist, she inwardly knew that it would be useless.

He would see through it immediately. Even if he didn't figure it out straight away, she knew eventually that she would trip up, and that he would catch her.

She then supposed that he would probably punish her. Insults he could take. Insults, Harleen figured, were something he had endured for a very long time. But lying? No. People didn't lie to him. He lied to them. And then he used, twisted and abandoned them.

She had left Arkham with the beginnings of a headache forming at her temples and a hand that still pulsed ever so slightly with pain. Her eyes drooped with tiredness, her lack of sleep from the previous night catching up to her.

She stumbled wearily into her apartment, bothering with neither the television nor food. Instead, she headed straight for bed and the comfortable, downy pillows she knew awaited her.

Sleep, as she had expected it to, fell over her quickly, pulling her into a slumber that was deep but restless, and rife with obscure, nonsensical dreams.

* * *

The day, he felt, had been an obvious success on his part. She couldn't see it yet, but she was already breaking. Eroding away slowly like limestone under the harsh onslaught of rain.

He was amused at the delicate irony of the situation. She wanted to be strong, to stand up to him, but underneath he could see that her strength was a façade; underneath it he knew she was composed of a malleable softness that was just waiting to be shaped.

So far, she was the only person at Arkham not to have disappointed him. Her feistiness ran deeper than she realised, probably because she ignored the battered soul within herself, masking it constantly against him.

He ran his tongue across surface of the scars inside his mouth as he counted the square tiles that made up the ceiling of his cell. It was a pastime he resorted to when his mood descended beyond mere boredom, and entered the realms of pure ennui. He already knew there was one hundred and forty eight.

The soft glow from the ever present lights turned the blinding white of the walls into a yellowy cream, and prevented his over active mind from finding any rest at all. He didn't particularly mind – he despised sleep. It wasted precious time that could be spent doing far more beneficial things.

Not that he found counting ceiling tiles to be of any benefit at all.

He shut his eyes as he tried to smooth out his thoughts. It was becoming _unbearable_.

He had his Harley, but that was all, and their visits were far too infrequent to satiate him in the way he needed. Usually, when he got irate, people would die, or something would get destroyed in a spectacular fashion. Breaking down Harley was slow, and almost too laborious an effort for his quick intelligence.

But then, he reasoned, the best releases were the ones you worked for, the ones that took time. It was, he thought, like drugs or sex. You could get a quick fix, and for a while, feel ok. But the best releases, the most mind blowing, incredible releases, came when one had to work for them. When one built a tension so intoxicatingly tense, the release culminated in a dramatic crescendo of pleasure so powerful, it transcended this realm and moved into another world entirely.

A small smile came to his lips at the thought. This form of torture was slow, and required more mastery than the physical kind, but the joy he would get as he twisted her into doing his bidding and the pleasure he would get from shattering her would be worth it.

The release would be wonderful.

Ultimately, Harleen was just another piece on his gaming board. She was a relatively important one, a piece he couldn't afford to expend entirely. For now, she had a purpose. She had potential.

He had seen it today, how easily she responded to him, how she, more so than others, had the potential for madness. She could be an asset to him while he was forced to stay in here. In due course, she could help him.

Although how, he was not entirely sure.

* * *

The end of October passed swiftly, Halloween coming and going in a whirlwind of increasingly inventive and eccentric outfits. Harleen had noticed a significant amount of recurring Joker vs Batman motifs among the costumed as she wondered into town on the 31st, something that made her feel uneasy.

It was a constant reminder that while she hurried about the asylum, completing the days work, he was always there, just a few floors above her or a couple of corridors away, waiting.

She didn't really understand how she knew he was waiting; she just did. And it frightened her.

She could feel his presence stronger than ever now. While others appeared to have accustomed themselves to his being there and had learned to ignore his aura accordingly, to Harleen, it only seemed to get more influential, brushing past her and wrapping itself around her when she least expected it.

It was as though he sought her out, purposely seeking to distract her, to make her feel as uncomfortable as possible.

November brought with it a sharp descent in the weather, the autumn skies turning from a sharp, cerulean serenity to a deep, depressing grey as the onslaught of water approached rapidly. Harleen's usual swell of patients lessened somewhat as she was given more time to prepare for her next meeting with the Joker. On the 4th, she was called to see Dr Smith once more.

The meeting was brief and to the point. Harleen had dedicated much of her free time to planning her next session with the depraved psychopath, which had resulted in limited success. Despite her desperate efforts, she had found no way to avoid the truth of the situation – she had to play his game.

It unnerved her, because as soon as she relented and gave him the information about her that he craved, the ball would be placed firmly in his court. They would no longer be fighting for power. He would possess it wholly and use it against her with that frightening intelligence of his. It was _his _game, and Harleen was doubtful as to whether she could match him, let alone beat him at it.

She tried not to let the dread show, knowing that fear only fed his eradicable fire, but Dr. Smith caught it immediately. Harleen had no idea how she would hide it from him if she couldn't hide it from her fellow psychiatrist.

"Harleen, if you'd prefer to leave this for a few more days, then nobody will mind. It takes strength to face him.

Harleen sighed. "It's already been a week. If I do it now or next week is irrelevant. I'll still be worried about everything I have to share with him… which in effect, is everything I'll have to share with you."

"If you want to talk about it beforehand, then by all means, my door is always open." Doctor Smith paused for a moment, before continuing slowly. "But I feel that if you were to switch the tape recorder off, whatever you told him would never leave that room."

Harleen was shocked. "Are you suggesting that I'll purposely sabotage the meeting?"

"I'm suggesting you do whatever makes you feel most comfortable, especially as you are preparing to put yourself in an exceptionally uncomfortable situation. Your focus needs to be on him. Not on me or anyone else."

A short silence fell over them, in which Harleen contemplated her thoughts carefully before replying. "How can I… trust," she smirked at her use of the word 'trust' before continuing, "a man like that? Surely he'll just exploit everything I say."

"Of course he will, but he'll exploit it to you in his efforts to toy with you – he doesn't want us. In some bizarre way, he wants your trust, and with the weaker minded, his tactics could easily work. By having you confide in him, he believes trust is what he's getting. Although I personally believe he has no idea what trust is, or how to use it."

"However you choose to look at his take on trust, he's damn good at utilising it." Harleen commented.

"Indeed. But whatever you tell him he won't share, because it won't give him any sort of advantage, while keeping it to himself will. But Harleen…sharing things with this man…well, neither of us are comfortable with it."

"There's an understatement." Harleen smiled.

"But maybe you'd like to speak to someone about whatever it is that bothers you so much before you share it with him. Maybe we can help."

Harleen's gaze seem fixed to the floor, her curiosity suddenly piqued by the odd shapes in the light, wooden panels. Again, she did not answer immediately. When she did, her gaze remained down cast, and her voice came out slightly choked. "For the sake of my shame, that's probably not the best idea."

"Whatever happened in the past is not our place to judge you upon. But if you continue to bottle it up, then it will hinder you from moving forward."

"How did-?"

"I deduced it a while ago, after our session together with the Joker. I didn't want to be presumptuous; I just want you to be prepared when you face him. I just want to help."

Harleen felt a sudden twang of affection for the woman before her, and for a moment, a genuinely grateful smile graced her features. "You've helped me a lot. I feel somewhat lucky in a weird way, because so many people in my position would cut a limb off to work with you."

The older woman smiled. "Just don't give in to him."

"I don't intend to."

* * *

He had waited patiently over a week for Harleen to return, each day intensifying the aching desire to do something inconceivably destructive, just for the sheer sake of it. The burning need to hurt, just for hurting, was overwhelming him. So much so that if he couldn't so something to alleviate the extreme boredom soon, he would have to resort to hurting himself.

And that would do nothing for his sanity.

When they called for him, cuffed him, and led him a very short distance to the isolated interview room, his heart had sung with undue happiness; a sadistic glimmer of excitement was visible in his dark irises.

Harleen entered the room in a professional swish of sterile lab coat, her blonde hair secured away in a neat bun. He could not deny the fact that she was gorgeous or that if the chance ever arose, he most certainlywould. He'd unwind those pretty blond locks and twist his fingers so tightly in them, she'd shriek in agony as the hair ripped itself from her scalp.

Then he'd throw her against the stupid white wall of this stupid white cell and make her scream. For him, for pain, for sex, for everything she really wanted under that disguise of hers. For everything he wanted.

He smiled to himself. Indeed she was attractive, but there was something that lay beneath her physical beauty. She possessed an undercurrent of something more sinister.

And in his own depraved way, he liked it.

As with last time she sat down opposite to him, a stony disposition radiating from her as she, once again, tried to assert some authority over the situation.

He smacked his lips together in greeting as she placed her files to one side in a neat stack, before flicking the ever present tape recorder on.

"Back again, Doc? You'll want to be careful." He leered at her. "People will start to think you're getting, uh, attached."

Her gaze didn't falter. "The thought repulses me."

"So you continue to say." He replied idly. "But you wouldn't come back if there wasn't something you wanted to come back for."

"I'm still here because I refuse to give up. Besides, as I've already pointed out before, you won't respond to anyone else besides me. You leave us little choice."

He chuckled softly, mirthlessly. "That's because all the other psychiatrists in this place, are, how to put this gently…" He pretended to be lost in thought for a moment. "Ugly."

Harleen couldn't mask her surprise at the sudden, seemingly random comment. It was a sharp divergence from where she had intended to go, but it was an interesting turn of events. "Now that was bizarre. Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly, but for you Harley, why not?" His voice, as usual, was darkly sarcastic, Harleen having yet to witness what he sounded like when he was truly furious.

"Why have some middle aged, haggard, ugly egotist, with a stick shoved so far up her ass it's practically coming back out of her mouth, when I can have you? A young, guilty, gorgeous, Harlequin."

"You may want to work on your technique when it comes to flattery." Harleen replied, her voice bemused. Her outward demeanour remained straight and professional, but inside her, something had stirred. He had called her gorgeous, and something, most likely her ego, had been boosted ever so slightly.

Of course she knew he said nothing without some form of irony, and the feeling deflated fast, leaving guilt in its wake.

"Flattery was never my thing. I always considered myself a man who got, uh, straight to the point."

Harleen glanced momentarily to the tape recorder, knowing exactly what was coming next. She was about to sacrifice all the power she possessed and walk unarmed into enemy territory.

He noticed her fleeting look at the machine and smiled, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. He didn't need to act this time. Without warning, Harleen flicked the tape recorder off, and turned her attention back to him.

"I know what you're doing, and I know I have no choice but to give you the tools with which to torment me." Her words were conveyed with all the iciness of a cold winter. "But don't think I'll succumb to your game."

"Games?" He replied in a mock innocent tone, humour lighting his features. Suddenly his face and tenor fell, his voice darkening considerably. "Correct me if I'm mistaken Harley, but was it not you who told me there were no games to play, only the ones that I had imagined?"

Outwardly at least, he noted, she remained unperturbed. "I think we're both well aware of what you're trying to do."

"I'm not trying to do anything." He smiled in an almost sombre sort of way. "I'm just curious. We're going to be spending a lot of time together as these visits get more frequent. It's only natural that I would want to know about you, because you want to, ah, know everything about me. It's like respect Harley." He drawled the words out slowly, a menacing overtone obvious in his words. "It goes both ways."

Her lips quirked in a way that resulted in neither smile nor frown. He thought that it may have been out of nervousness or irritation. He decided it was probably both.

He loved it when a woman got nervous for him. Although admittedly, he loved it when anyone got nervous for him.

"Well if you want to play a game, then I think it's only fair you make the first move."

Even now she was trying to assert her power over him. She wondered if it was truly he or herself she sought to reassure. He, however, could see straight through her coldness. She was afraid. Not necessarily of him right now, but of what she had to do.

A sudden, small power rush seized him, causing a malicious grin to spread unevenly across his shredded cheeks.

He pulled the words out slowly, his usual sardonic inflection present as always. "Where do we begin?"

"How about a real name. And a brief history of your childhood." Her tone was brisk now, the fear momentarily gone from her eyes.

He shook his head. "That's two questions. I would have thought a woman with a Ph. D, at the very least, would be able to count."

Harleen pursed her lips. His name wasn't as important as his childhood. She could get that later. "Fine. Childhood then."

"The usual." He shrugged. "My father was guilty of many crimes: domestic abuse, child abuse, infidelity, alcoholism. You know the story." His voice was whimsical and completely uncaring, as though the subject held no importance at all. "Mummy tried to be brave and ended up bleeding to death on the kitchen floor. Supposedly, I had a big mouth. So he decided to make I even bigger.

"You're lying." Her voice was sharp, biting, and fast.

"Well that's rude." He licked his lips, a vindictive smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "I was only being, uh, honest."

"You wouldn't know what honesty was if it jumped up and stabbed you in the face."

Harleen let the words slip before he could stop them, her voice so low that it was almost a snarl.

"No." He agreed simply. "But I'd like it a hell of lot more if it were to do that." His face fell suddenly, in that way Harleen had come realize it would if something angered him. "But, Harley, don't you see what a little. Hypocrite. You. Are. You want to talk lies? Let's hear a childhood story of yours, hmm? Then we'll see who's got issues with honesty."

"Don't ever compare yourself to me."

"Oh, Harley. You were all ready to come in here and be brave, but all you've done is throw your denial in my face again, with the vain hope that it will make you less like me. Well let me break something to you, sweetness. All people, not just you, are more like me that they'd ever want to admit. Men who beat their wives will watch me on television in a bar and condemn me, then they'll go home to their innocent, little wives, and thrash seven shades of shit from them."

"Be quiet."

He leant across the slim table, his face coming closer to Harleen's frozen one. Somewhere in her horror, she wondered how he managed to paralyse her like that.

"Lawyers, politicians, the police. They'll all be watching me, despising me, reviling me, but if the mob offers them a bribe they'll snap it up before you can even say 'Joker'."

"You're wrong."

He brought his pale, sun starved face even closer to Harleen's, until they were mere inches apart. She could feel his breath blowing stray strands of her hair about her face as he continued in his harsh, low voice. "People want to believe in their little codes of moral conduct because it makes them feel like they're good people. But underneath everything, they're all charlatans, driven by their own gluttonous greed and the innate desire to preserve their own pathetic, worthless lives.

"That is human nature. Stitch up however you want. Put all the glitter and ribbons on it that you can find. But you, Har-ley, are the biggest, fucking hypocrite of them all, and you disgust me. Now. Would you like to talk about honesty again?"

Harleen hadn't even realised she was crying. The salty liquid fell in sudden, unstoppable streams from her eyes, following the curve of her cheek to her chin, the saline solution falling in irregular drops onto the metal table.

"You're… You're…" her voice was little more than a raspy whisper, and try as she might, the insult she so desperately wanted to hurl at him would not form on her lips.

He smiled a cruel, smug, satisfied smile. Harley felt her stomach tie itself in knots of guilt, shame and realization. She hated him. She hated him for being evil, for being perceptive, for being right.

Her eyes were still swimming with tears, blue orbs staring blankly into the distance as tears carried her make up down her face. His leer grew. She looked defeated, guilty, and beautiful.

And that was when he decided to act. He'd cut her ropes, now all that was left to do was untie them.

Without warning, he brought his lips crashing into her own.

Harleen had thought he was going to head butt her, with his face so close to her own. She had tried to jerk backwards, but had been nowhere quick enough; his face descended on hers in one fell swoop.

She was astonished, disgusted, and electrified all at the same time as his scarred mouth surrounded hers, lips working quickly and with fervour.

As far as kisses went, it was innocent, but it seemed to last forever, and made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end in revulsion and exhilaration. She did not pull away immediately, her feelings too jumbled, too messy to even try and make sense of the situation.

But where her mind failed, her body responded accordingly, her mouth reacting without her permission. It had been so long since she'd done this, so long since she had even thought about it, that she suddenly felt even more uncomfortable than she had a few moments prior.

It concluded quickly. The Joker was pleased to see that, when he pulled away, Harleen appeared confused and disoriented. Though her senses had deserted and deprived her of her voice, she managed a small gasp and expression of disbelief.

Many men, he thought, were egotists because hey were arrogant. Himself, he believed, was truly worthy of his pride. She looked broken, emotions haywire, thoughts incoherent.

Now, it was time.

"So, Harley. I've told you all about my childhood. What. About. Yours?"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Firstly, before anything else, apologies. Taking this long to update a story is terrible on my part, especially when everyone has been so supportive of it. I hope you guys will forgive me, and I also hope you will not have forgotten my story. If you have however, I've only myself to blame.

You will not have to wait this long for a chapter again; I have exams starting the 15th of May but I hope to get an update out not long after that – writing is a leisurely activity for me and I always take time out from school work and literal work to indulge in some leisure time.

Finally: another apology. Because one was simply not enough to express show sorry I am. Please enjoy this chapter, and, if you're going to review, be honest to me because I sincerely hope it is up to standard after such an unnecessarily long delay.

* * *

The man wore an unreadable expression as he picked up the newspaper, his sharp, dark eyebrows slanting down over eyes that were simultaneously fierce and somber. The brown irises glittered with an astute intelligence, but upon closer inspection, underneath that, lay a look of perplexity, as though the man were trying to solve an especially tricky puzzle.

Indeed Bruce Wayne was a man of many opposites.

The billionaire flicked some money absently at the vender as he continued on his way, his eyes scanning the small black font underneath the large picture plastered crudely across the front page. It told him nothing he didn't already know. He resigned himself and brought his eyes back up to the large photograph dominating the front page.

It had been months since the Joker's incarceration, but his psychotic antics, combined with the tragic death of Harvey Dent meant that Gotham's media moguls hadn't been short on a story for months. It had taken a long time for the public hysteria surrounding the case to die down, but with Batman keeping a considerably more secretive profile than in the past due to his new found status as a murderer, newspapers could always rely on a Joker story to make them money.

Bruce sigh as he unlocked his car, making his way back down towards Gotham Docks. He anticipated the re-opening of Wayne Manor next month with far more excitement than he'd ever let on, but for now he could make do with his back up contingency.

As per usual, Alfred was already there, waiting with both breakfast and a rather large first aid kit. Bruce felt a smile tug at one side of his mouth as he sat down in front of the various computer monitors that lay at the far end of the makeshift bat cave.

"And she would be…?" Alfred stood behind him, absently sharpening a bat blade, his eyes focusing on the slightly grainy image of what he perceived to be a blonde woman.

"Her name's Harleen Quinzel. She's a psychiatrist at Arkham asylum."

"Ah." Alfred smiled. "You do realize, Master Wayne, that hacking into Arkham's computer network and stealing their CCTV footage is a rather serious criminal offense."

"I'm almost certain that dressing up in theatrical, bat themed armour and attempting to bring down an intricate criminal network via violence and fear is also a criminal offense. Maybe I've just come to enjoy."

"How ironic."

"I know she's interviewed him, therefore it seems to be a logical conclusion that there should be video, or at least audio files containing the contents of their sessions. But I can't find anything."

"How do you know she's his psychiatrist?" Alfred's voice was filled with genuine curiosity.

"I wouldn't be a particularly good detective if I didn't know how to successfully bug a building Alfred."

"It's been nearly thirty one years Master Wayne, yet somehow you still manage to find some new way in which to surprise me." Bruce could hear the smile in Alfred's voice.

They descended into silence as Bruce scanned over the camera footage. Perhaps it was obsessive of him, but Bruce was not foolish enough to believe Arkham would hold the decorated menace forever. The Joker had left a gaping hole in the criminal underworld and Bruce knew that one day he would return to claim it, while gleefully punishing whomever would be foolish enough to try and claim it.

* * *

Lust. Guilt. Attraction. Shame.

Harleen felt them all battling for space inside her. He had kissed her. And she had liked it. She had kissed him back.

She stared him down, her hard look belied slightly by the obvious shine in her eyes. She bit back the tears with fierce determination as she tried to smooth out the jumble of her emotions.

She forced her voice out slowly through gritted teeth. "Do you really think I'm that weak?"

If he was shocked by her resolute defiance it didn't show. He smiled in a way that could have been pleasant, was it not for the constant presence of a sadistic brutality that permanently dogged his very existence. He lifted up a hand to her cheek, and brushed his fingers idly across the soft skin of her face.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it Harley?" He drawled the words our slowly. "A long time since anyone _touched_ you." His fingers tightened around her face, gripping her slack jaw tight. "Oh Harley, you're not fighting back."

She winced slightly in pain. "You think you can beat a story out of me?" She managed thickly.

"Now now Harlequin, you know that's not my style, although a healthy dose of violence does put me in a remarkably good mood." He rolled his eyes at her manically and grinned. "Just taking it like that. Anyone would think you _like_ the pain Harley."

He threw her roughly down and she toppled unceremoniously back into her chair, her hand reaching to instinctively rub at the ache in her jaw. "If you won't play by the rules then I'm afraid we've reached a problem, the solution to which lies with you. If you ever want to see the outside world again then I suggest you co-operate. This session is terminated." Her tone was airy, as though he hadn't just stripped her completely bare of all the dignity she possessed.

"Oh _Harley_, I didn't know you had the capacity to blackmail in you." He smiled at this new found, nugget of information. A rare glimpse into the true if she herself could not see it, he could. She was his plaything, and she would come back willingly, whether it be tomorrow or next month. He would wait. He would wait patiently for her.

As she turned on her heel and left, a slight wobble in her confident step, he cackled with frenzied laughter. The sound penetrated deep into Arkham, reverberating off of the stone and metal, echoing down the sterile corridors and in Harleen's mind, as she trembled under the weight of her shame.

The conviction fell from her stride as she slowed down, his laughter still ringing in her ears despite the distance she had put between them. Somewhere inside, Harleen knew that there would never be enough distance – he was omnipresent, like a sick god that could pull the very depths of her shame to the surface with his masterful puppetry. She collapsed against the white brick of the wall, its coldness seeping through her clothes and onto the warm skin of her back.

Absently, she traced a finger along the curve of her jaw. Now that the adrenaline was fading from her veins she could feel a dull ache throbbing along the arc of her cheek. She was under no doubt that the skin there would bruise. She would become his trophy, a testament to his ego. He had left shameful, purposeful marks for the whole World to see.

Harleen knotted her fingers tightly into her hair, allowing a small cry of frustration to leave her. She wasn't entirely sure of what to do now. A sense of astringent failure was welling up inside her, combining with her embarrassment to form an emotion so overpoweringly low that Harleen couldn't put it into words.

She felt polluted. Tainted. She wanted to leave. She knew there would be consequences but right now they didn't matter. She wanted to leave.

Without a second thought she hauled her back off of the wall and made for the exit. She marched in an unassailable manner, stopping to neither look nor speak to anyone who crossed her path. Only when she had left the bleak interior of the asylum far behind, her car going much faster than it ought to have been going down the street, did she dare avert her gaze to somewhere other than directly in front of her.

It was only a kiss. How had a kiss managed to make her feel so unbelievably low, so unbelievably strange?

Perhaps it was the way he looked at her. Like he knew all about her, like he could see with starling clarity the darker shades of her personality, the shadows that hung over her soul. She pressed the accelerator harder, her car groaning for a new gear under the pressure.

Everyone had a past. Harleen had spent years running from hers, years of school, college and adult life. And when she had felt safe, when she had felt comfortable, she had stopped running. When the memories of childhood had languished into nothing more than the seemingly faded remnants of a particularly bad dream, she had stopped running.

And now the past was catching up with her. It was right behind her, biting at her ankles; its tapered, terrifying teeth threatening to tear her apart again.

It took Harleen several moments to realise that her disturbing thoughts were turning into the swift onset of a panic attack. Her hands shook uncontrollably against the hard plastic of the steering wheel as she pulled into the apartment block car park.

Her unusually crooked parking didn't even register as she stumbled out of her car and into the building. Her legs felt weak and useless beneath her. Her heart struck and shook and shuddered faster and faster in her chest, until Harleen was sure it was going to come out through her mouth.

Her trembling hands struggled to grip her keys; her fingers fumbled uselessly as she tried to insert one into the lock, the bundle instead clattering with a metallic chink to the floor. The panic built up inside as she attempted in vain, once again, to scramble for her keys and shove them into the lock.

She gave up, falling to the floor. Her knees hit ground with a flinch inducing thud. She huddled desperately up against the wall, her entire body trembling with an overload of conflicting emotions.

Tears fell. Harleen felt weak. Pathetic. What would the Joker say if he could see her now?

He would laugh at her. He would revel in her grief, like the sick, sadistic monster that he was. He would enjoy watching her fall apart.

Harleen was unsure of how long she sat pressed against the wall, as though she was trying to force her way though it. Eventually, the attack passed and in its place came exhaustion.

He had done so much to her with so little. She doubted he had this effect on everyone – most people viewed him as a freak. Admittedly she thought that too – but he was also interesting. He knew that. He must do. He had masterfully played her like a fool. The failure tasted bitter and rank on her tongue.

Harleen wiped her face in an unsure manner. Her face was still damp from tears, the salty solution irritating her cheeks a little. She crawled towards her keys, grasping at them feebly with unsure fingers.

She pulled herself up, humiliation hot in her veins. It took a moment longer than it should have to open the door, but once she was inside the safety of her apartment, Harleen made straight for the bathroom; a hot bath would help her tired mind.

As the scalding water poured into the white tub, Harleen stripped off all of her clothes and turned to confront the full view of her face in the bathroom mirror.

She could already see dark purple marks appearing across her face. She touched them delicately and winced. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, a testament to her tears and tiredness. She felt ugly; on the inside and the out.

Harleen studied her face until the steam had completely clouded over her reflection. She stood before the mirror a moment longer, staring at her indecipherable features lost beneath a cloud of steam.

It was nine PM when Harleen crawled into bed. She was worn out, but sleep was apparently not feeling compelled to bless her with a good nights rest any time soon. She supposed it was a minor irritation in the grand scheme of a rather horrific day. Throwing back the covers she grabbed for some clothes.

She needed a drink. A strong one.

She seized her coat, forgoing her car keys. Although she rarely drank, if ever the urge took her, Harleen visited Sandy's, a small bar only a stones throw from her apartment. Sandy's had a wealth of pleasant regulars, most of whom Harleen knew from around the area. She needed a distraction; they could give it to her.

She hadn't walked particularly far when an odd feeling began to stir down her spine. She knew almost immediately that she was being watched, and for one horrifying second she thought it must be the Joker, escaped from the incarcerating depths of Arkham to exact his own unique brand of sadistic torture upon her.

However rationality regained a hold of her quickly; she would have been alerted had the Joker escaped which, considering the surveillance he was under, was a distinct impossibility. Furthermore, the presence observing her was not that of the Joker. It was equally as powerful, but entirely different.

Harleen froze on the street for a moment, afraid to look up. She lifted her eyes slowly, cautiously to the roof of the tall building across the street, stopping to gaze in terrified wonder at the figure adorning the structure.

Nothing could have prepared Harleen for her first meeting with the man, the mystery, the legend that was Batman. Whether he was hero or villain; protector or persecutor; human or monster – it didn't matter. He was a dark, daunting figure, a natural extension of the night over which he ruled.

Harleen remained rooted like a tree to spot, partially from fear, partially because she knew running would serve no purpose whatsoever.

His cape moved slightly in the cold, winter wind, but asides from that he remained motionless, simply observing her for a moment. Harleen shuddered, not entirely from the cold.

Without warning, he leapt forward in a graceful, powerful, unbelievable motion. He became the night, or the night became him, Harleen could not tell which as he swept towards the Earth with strong, swift movements. He landed in a deceptively fluid manner – Harleen barely heard his feet touch the ground.

"Harleen Quinzel."

She shivered in surprise. She was not quite sure what she had been expecting Batman to sound like, but it hadn't been the deep, gravelly voice that he possessed. She supposed any voice at all was surprising for a man who was so much about the presence.

"…Yes?" Her voice was quiet. She was simultaneously afraid and amazed.

"The Joker's psychiatrist?"

"…Yes." Harleen's voice was barely a whisper. He cast an ominous shadow over her and Harleen found that she couldn't quite lift her gaze up to look at him. Perhaps it was fear but Harleen was more inclined to believe the fault lay with her shame.

"I need some information."

"I… I guessed." Batman was an accused murderer, a symbol of absolute fear. Yet Harleen knew that despite his dominating presence, he wouldn't hurt her.

There was a long silence. "He did that to you." Although it seemed impossible, Harleen was almost certain she heard his voice lose some of its hard edge. She bowed her head lower. "You don't have to accept that kind of treatment."

"I don't accept it!" Harleen felt a spark of rage ignite inside of her. She threw her head up to face him, the Dark Knight of Gotham City. She couldn't make out any of his features; he blended completely with the shadows. She narrowed her eyes in the darkness, just about deciphering what appeared to be a distinctly human jaw line.

Batman was human.

"Just because he hasn't got the pick of the population of Gotham to play with at the moment, doesn't mean he can take his aggression out on good people like you."

"Men with no fear are the most dangerous types." Harleen paused for a moment. "I imagine you understand that concept only too well."

Another silence. "There's something I need you to do Harleen." The way he growled her name unnerved her. "If he says anything; anything that suggests to you that he intends to make an escape in some form from Arkham, I need you to contact Police Commissioner Jim Gordon… And for the record Harleen, I don't recommend wandering the streets of Gotham in the daytime, let alone at night."

Harleen didn't see him move at all, but suddenly he was holding out a card to her. "Police Commissioner Gordon?" She asked. She remembered his kind, lined face, the way his smile had been so genuine despite his obvious exhaustion from dealing in a job that itself dealt primarily with the forgoers of evil.

"This number will put you straight through to him. State your name and he will drop whatever he is doing to listen." Batman handed the card to her.

She took it and squinted at the small font in the darkness. "I don't think he's planning to share his evil plans for world domination with me any time soon." Harleen smiled in an ironically pained manner as she brought her head back up.

Her gaze met only the empty street before her. She gave an audible gasp; she had neither heard not felt him leave. She staggered in a circle, searching for any sign of him but there was nothing besides the oddly unnerving silence of the night.

Harleen knew Batman was no murderer – it was something she had always suspected right from the beginning of the Joker's media frenzy. His advice rung clearly in her ears; Gotham was no place in which take a casual night time stroll. He was undoubtedly right but despite that, Harleen felt the hot sting of anger welling up in her veins again as she began to stride home.

Batman's presence was beginning to confirm what she had already begun to suspect; she was losing control over a destiny she had spent years immaculately constructing for herself; she was becoming an expendable pawn in a game where there were far bigger pieces and the stakes were perilously high.

Harleen's heart sunk even further as she crawled into bed for the second time that night.

* * *

Wake. Stare indolently at ceiling. Wait for food. Wait for them. Wait for her. Wait for anything to break up the idle, unbearable monotony of the day. Rest. Or no rest. No rest for the wicked.

Boredom crept into every crevice of Arkham. It was deafening, drowning completely the cries of the inmates that usually flooded the mental asylum. He was so bored it was almost physically painful.

Which he decided, upon further reflection, was not entirely a bad thing.

He rolled over onto his side. Everything felt white. The light cotton scrubs, the stupid plastic plates, the insufferably cold tiles. White, white, white. No colour. Did doctors really think the barren white environment was going to heal inmates of all their psychological demons? Why not purple? Why not fucking yellow? Anything to improve upon the dismal, depressing, dreary white.

When was she coming back? He missed her really. She was his only entertainment. She cried for him. She was the only person he'd seen cry in far too long. And she didn't taste too bad either.

A key in the lock. Metallic chink. A familiar voice in his own little section of the hospital. The sound of his security guard protesting. The click of his own door being opened. Some fun guaranteed indeed.

"Get up."

"Well I can't say it was you I was exp-"

"I said get up."

He smiled at the wall in front of him before he rolled over. "Well if it's not the brilliant Doctor Smith acclaimed psychiatrist with a PhD in, uh, utter bullshit. What can I do for you this fine morning, my dear doctor?" He reeked of sarcasm.

"What did you do to Harleen?"

"Well I have to say, I don't uh, _believe_ this to be the correct protocol for this kind of situation."

"Fuck protocol, you don't fucking deserve protocol. You're not ill, you're just sick, a sick, sick bastard… Where is my- Where's Harleen!?"

The Joker smiled. A genuinely delighted, evil smile. "Can't say I've seen her in a good twenty four hours. Of course that is, uh, just an estimate. No clocks. Quite irritating. Never seen you lose it like this before." He continued in a composed manner. "I have to say doctor, I rather… _Like_ it. Madness suits you."

"If you've done anything-"

He rose from the bed quickly, hand wiping instinctively at scars. He saw Doctor Smith recoil ever so slightly as the realization that she was stuck in a confined space with a complete and utter psychopath hit her. She had no protection. He could kill her right now. And she knew it.

"I believe Doctor, that it is your job to keep an eye me, not, uh, the other way around."

She said nothing more and left. He stayed stood for a moment, reflecting upon on her words. So Harleen had left. She had gone and done something, something stupid maybe. He smiled as he lay back down. Today would not be a boring day.

* * *

Doctor Smith was stuck somewhere between overwhelming relief and merciless fury as she observed the withdrawn young woman sat before her. Her light blonde hair fell haphazardly into eyes that were dull with tiredness.

"I'm sorry."

Doctor Smith took a deep breath, trying to bring some reason into the equation. "Harleen. Putting my personal feelings for you entirely to one side, you must understand what a breach in your responsibility as a doctor this is. Technically gross negligence. Do you have any idea how serious that is? You left a complete psychopath free, if he wished, to wonder the halls of an asylum filled to bursting point with genuinely ill and exceptionally vulnerable patients."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fucking cut it Harleen!" Doctor Smith snapped. "I know there were security guards – thanks to their exceptionally quick thinking no one died. Which lets face it, if that psycho ever gets loose; we're all pretty much fucked. But you had the tranquilizer on you and the necessary training with which to administer it. And you just ran off and no one has seen or heard from you for a good twenty four hours! Combine that with the fact that there was absolutely no recording of your session with him… Do you have any idea at all how scared I was for you?"

"You said. You said if I needed to I could-"

"I know I said. I know I said turn the recorder off. But maybe… Maybe that was a mistake. Harleen I don't want to patronize you, and I certainly don't want to make you feel any worse than you already quite obviously do. But I can't have mistakes like that. I can't fear for you like that. Maybe it's time I fully take over this case."

"No!"

"Harleen I know-"

"No, you don't know! I… I'm sorry. I know that when the shit hits the fan the worst thing to do is to run away." Harleen spoke fast, her words falling over one another. "But something happened last night; I was visited by someone… someone important. And I think. I think maybe I have some leverage over him now. Even if it's only a tiny bit."

Harleen had not slept well at all, her dreams plagued by faceless, nameless menaces. During the many long periods she had spent awake with a throbbing jaw, she had begun to contemplate her role in the strange game that she had inevitably been drawn into. It was weak, but it didn't have to stay that way. Her meeting with batman had given her an advantage. One she could use.

The Joker would be more inclined to care, more inclined to listen, more inclined to _share_ with Harleen if she could tell him anything regarding the current status of Gotham's Dark Knight. Harleen had always considered that secretly, the Joker had some kind of weird respect for Batman. Batman was a worthy adversary – as intelligent, as daring and as devoted to his cause as the joker was to his own. Batman was an influence she could not afford to lose and a card she would have to play well.

Doctor Smith said nothing for several moments and when she broke the silence she sounded as thought she were on the verge of tears. Harleen felt a pang of guilt. She was only just beginning to realise how worried the older woman had been. "Harleen you show up here after abandoning an exceptionally important job, offering no explanation for your actions with a face full of what are quite obviously not self inflicted injuries. I saw the CCTV footage of you running away… And you expect me to just let you back into a room with a man who has obviously got a dangerous compulsion for hurting you?"

Harleen dropped her gaze and her voice. "I know it's a lot to ask, I know I've shattered all of the faith you so kindly gave me and I know I've made myself appear immature and incapable of handling responsibility. But please… I know what to do now. Before it wasn't so clear, I didn't know how to crack him, I didn't know… But now I think I have an idea."

There was another long silence, in which Doctor Smith did not even look at her, instead favoring the window of her office which was currently obscured by the closed slats of a blind. "Harleen if I am even to consider giving you another chance I want you to be completely and utterly honest with me. I want you to tell me everything – everything about your session with the Joker yesterday and everything about this mysterious meeting you say has helped you so invaluably with his case."

Harleen paused. She didn't especially have time to mull it over and she supposed that ultimately there was no question in what she had to do. She took a deep breath of her own. "I will, and I promise to not to omit anything. But in return…" Harleen paused slightly, almost afraid to continue. "In return I want you to promise… promise you won't judge me."

Doctor Smith turned once again to face her across the dimly lit office. "That's a very strange term to come out with. But nevertheless… I agree."

Harleen sighed. "Where do we begin?"

* * *

**A/N:** A lot of going insane in this chapter, I hope you enjoyed it despite the lack of overt Harley/Joker relationship dynamics. They're coming next chapter, oh I promise you they're coming =] Also no more mysteries. Finally I'm going to give you lovely, patient people some answers. But not too many… I've got a story to weave yet =]


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Batman and all of its characters are property of DC. The song 'Equilibrium' is property of Tristania.

* * *

I swim in you  
In your dark rivers  
Dive in your mind  
Search for your monsters  
Search for resistance  
Sink into the mud  
I dance in the halls of insanity  
Yet madness is  
Your highest deed  
Your vanity

**Tristania – Equilibrium**

* * *

Doctor Susan Smith knew that she was an intelligent woman. More intelligent than many: maybe even most. She was also smart, sharp and insightful. That was why she was so exceptionally good at her job, so gifted at understanding and healing the mental anguish of others.

She had been considering these evidently positive attributes of hers for a good fifteen minutes now, and was still no nearer to understanding why someone with so many redeeming intellectual features had just gone and done something that was quite possibly inexplicably stupid.

The answer seemed intent on evading her grasp.

It had been an ultimatum, one that had Harleen had accepted grudgingly. Doctor Smith had decided that her young charge would be allowed one last session with the Joker, and only one. She had even gone so far as to agree to her Harleen's dangerous terms – no Doctor Smith and no security personnel. If the session produced anything less than the Joker's personal revelation, then Doctor Smith would be taking the case over herself. No more questions asked.

She could not understand why she had agreed to Harleen's request this far. The Joker could not be healed. He wasn't ill and he certainly didn't want their treatment. But young naïve Harleen was so convinced she could help him. So convinced there was more to his psyche than complete and utter insanity. So convinced that if she delved far enough into the depths of his violent, murky mind, she would find a man beneath the madness.

Doctor Smith knew there was no man. Just a hollow shell filled entirely with depravity.

So why had she let Harleen waltz back into the lion's den yet again? Perhaps it was because she couldn't bear to crush all her idealistic, youthful dreams regarding the psychiatric profession. Or maybe Doctor Smith had allowed this to happen because she was simply as mad as the patients she treated.

She discarded the latter with an ironic, humorless smile. Whatever the reason, Doctor Smith doubted that Harleen's final attempt with the Joker was going to yield any positive results. The young psychiatrist simply wanted to prove herself and there was no doubt that the Joker was a fascinating creature to study. The fixation would run its course and fizzle out eventually.

Had Doctor Smith's judgment on the matter not been so clouded by an emotional attachment to her young charge, she may have stopped to realise that this was not necessarily always the case.

* * *

She walked with a renewed sense of confidence. It wasn't overly dramatic or ridiculous – indeed he thought the changes in her demeanor were rather subtle, if a little sudden. It did not surprise him. She had left yesterday, a complete and utter wreck; it had been beautiful to watch. But a lot could happen in twenty four hours. Maybe not inside the tedious confines of Arkham, but in the outside world… Why one could change the world with twenty four hours out there.

Her face was set rigid in an expression of stone cold professionalism, blonde hair swept neatly back as always. But there was a distinct humour in her eyes, something that hadn't been there before. Something he liked.

No. Surprise was not the expression. Intrigue was a word more akin to his current thoughts on her. And Intrigue made life within Arkham ever so slightly more interesting.

As she stood across the table from him, he felt a chill of unprecedented delight run down his spine, a chill he hadn't felt in far too long. As dignified as she attempted to remain, nothing could hide the thick, dark purple bruising that ran the length of her jaw. It was only a small testament to his sadistic tendencies, but one that he took great pride in nevertheless.

She sat down slowly, purposefully, her eyes refusing to break contact with his. She was usually so unsure of herself, usually so desperate to appear confidant and capable in the eyes of her superiors. Usually, she couldn't bring herself to stare him down with any real conviction. But now her gaze held genuine power; and he liked it.

"You've got an ace in your hand, Harley." He drawled the words out slowly, every one dripping with meaning. He had considered her entertaining but ultimately, just a toy with which he could play. And yet here she was, pulling the upper hand on him out of the blue. Suddenly, she was worth a little more of his time.

Her mouth momentarily quirked into an odd half smile. "It's up my sleeve actually. I don't like to leave things where you can see them."

"She'll play the game today, hmm? It's really quite _unsatisfying_ that you'll only, uh participate when you think the odds are stacked in your favour." He drawled as he leaned back in his chair. He was so carelessly arrogant; Harleen supposed even the idea of his own death would fail to faze him. She assumed her expression must have hardened slightly, because suddenly his eyes narrowed in an amused manner. "Oh Harley I know it's irritating for you, but at least I keep you interested."

"Tell me about Batman."

And then it happened. That shift in his demeanor that she had been striving to find for so long. The sudden slight contraction of his eyes, the way his body stiffened a little, causing him to lean ever so slightly over the table in anticipation. They were tiny movements, but in a heartbeat every scrap of his vicious humour had disappeared. In its place was pure malevolence, an obvious hunger that could only be satiated by fulfilling his desire for chaos. "And why would _you _want to, uh, know about _him_?" He licked his scars with a cruel eagerness.

"Why not?" His features, now painted completely by evil, were terrifying; but Harleen allowed none of her fear to seep through into her own expression. Instead she smiled, leaning back as he leaned forward. "He's the entire reason you're here. It seems only logical that we talk about him."

He cackled insanely, the sound echoing and reverberating off of the thick walls. "Put simply Harley, I _miss_ the Dark Knight. I _love_ it when people cower away from me, when I look into their eyes and all I can see is a primal fear that they can't suppress. I love listening to them beg for their lives. I love listening to them scream for their loved ones as they stare up in horror at an exploding building, watching helplessly as countless lives are obliterated within a single moment of beautiful tragedy. But do you know what I _love_ more than any of that? I love it when people are _brave_; because people are so rarely brave. Humans are a self serving race fuelled by their own selfish cowardice.

"When they look at me with fierce determination, unafraid of me, unafraid of dying at my hand; there's nothing quite like it. Because then I know I've found someone worthy of my attention. Someone I can truly _play_ with."

He spoke with such intense passion that Harleen didn't realise she had been steadily tilting forwards before it was too late. Her hands now rested on the cold, steel table; her face was so close to his she could feel his warm breath caressing her cheek. Her relaxed demeanor was now overwrought like a spring wound far too tight, threatening to pounce free of its rigid restraints at any given moment. "And does Batman look at you like that?"

The Joker grinned; the sickening lacerations pulling grossly taut over his would be handsome face. "He does. Can you imagine, Harley, if a person like that were to kill me? I would be dead but my legacy would be far from over." He traced a finger down the bruises that lined her jaw, applying just enough pressure for her to flinch slightly in pain.

She stared defiantly at him. His touch was nauseating but Harleen made no effort to stop him; something about it felt completely crucial. "If Batman were to kill you, he would kill his own humanity in the process; effectively bringing him down to your level. It would destroy you both." Harleen's eyes widened in realisation. "You need Batman."

He gripped her slack jaw tight. "We've been talking about uh, _me_ for so long now. And yet we never seem to talk about you Harley. Why is that?"

"Because I'm the psychiatrist and you're the patient."

"Save it." He barked, his grip tightening. "The term 'patient' suggests I want to be here, when we both know that's. Not. True. You keep things entertaining Harley; you stop me from getting bored. And when I get bored, awful things have this tendency to just _happen_. And do you know what Harley?" She did not reply and his grip tightened further. "I said. Do. You. Know. _What_?" She shook her head vigorously, her mouth unable to form any words against his unyielding grip. "I'm getting _bored_." He whispered the words before throwing her to the floor.

He did not move from his own seat for which Harleen was incredibly grateful; she did not want more bruises to add to her ever growing collection. She had finally touched a nerve and now had to rectify the situation before it descended into madness; she had to play the game. With a groan, she pulled herself up, falling unsteadily back into her chair. "What did you want to know?" The strength of her voice surprised her, giving no indication to the feeling of jelly-like numbness that had overtaken her insides.

"Why are you here?" He pulled the words out slowly, the dark humour returning to his voice.

Harleen supposed she could lie; but there appeared to be little point to it. He would know – he always knew. And he would punish her for it. Besides whatever she had done, it would never compare with the atrocities committed by the Joker. He worked on an entirely different level to any criminal she had ever met.

"I wasn't supposed to be a psychologist. I was… a gymnast." She shrugged her jacket over her shoulders; despite the cool atmosphere she felt incredibly warm. "I have been since I was a little girl. I didn't… home was hard; I wanted to get away from there more than anything else in the world. So when I was offered a gymnastics scholarship, I didn't even think about it."

"Show me." He demanded. Harleen blinked. "Show me a _trick_." He elaborated.

It took all of her willpower not to rub at her throbbing jaw as she reluctantly stood up. Without missing a beat she flipped herself over in a graceful back hand spring, her body flowing through the motion like liquid. She sat back down without saying a word. His expression didn't change; she doubted she would be able to rouse another reaction out him like before ever again. There was a paused before she continued.

"When I got to college, gymnastics didn't feel like enough. It felt frivolous and I had no desire to face scrutiny from my fellow bitchy gymnasts and their nasty sport moms. I wanted to be someone more; I wanted my family to look at me and realise that I was worth more than they would ever be. Eventually I settled on Psychology." She could not look him in the eye as she spoke, her voice barely above a mumble.

"Now my knowledge of the American education system may be slightly outdated, but don't mistake me for a stupid man _Harley_. You can't just, uh, switch courses like that. Especially not if you're on a scholarship."

"I called in a favour."

"An abused little girl doesn't have any favors to call in." the Joker grinned maliciously. "Be _honest_ now Harley. There's only, uh, _us_ here."

"I-I slept with my professor." Harley choked the words out quickly, her gaze fixed on the blurry outline of her reflection in the metal table. "I slept with him… and then I set him up."

The Joker erupted into peels of horrifying, frenzied laughter. "Oh Harley Quinn, that's _good_."

His laughter rang around the room, echoing off of every surface and into her ears. She brought her head up defiantly. "I'm not ashamed of it either. I've become everything I knew I could be."

The laughter ceased immediately. "And yet some part of you still feels completely unconvinced. I might be _evil_, as everyone likes to so simply put it. But at least when I, uh go to hell I can say my life was a fulfilling one." He had leaned forward again, his voice filled with brutal rapture. "And how can you say it's not _bad _to blackmail a professor? Did you make it look like rape? Threaten to play the _terrified_ victim? Or did he have a wife and children? You're better than I thought."

Harleen leant in towards him; she knew he could hurt her but her caution was no match for her intrigue. "You are evil. How can you claim for a single second that you are anything but? What you've done and what I've done… They don't even compare."

"Evil? No. No. I'm just more uh, _informed _than most; the human race is disease. And evil; well evil can take many forms. There is no _good _evil; so what you have done and what I have done are actually more comparable that you are willing to admit.

"You wanted to know so _desperately _what makes Batman so important; it's because he is more like me than anyone else I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. He sees the plague of humanity every single night; he sees it for what it is. I would imagine he has witnessed the crushing pain of its evils first hand. In _truth_, we're both just freaks in costume."

There was a long pause as Harleen took the sheer weight of his words in. "And you've witnessed the crushing pain of the world's evils first hand too?"

His scars twisted into their trademark sinister grin. He placed his finger delicately on the soft curve of her bottom lip, eyes glowing with malice as he traced his hand down the smooth skin of her neck, stopping momentarily on her pulse: he could practically feel the warm gush of her blood pumping like through her neck. "Why are you _really _here, Harlequin? Think you can cure me? You know you can't uh _cure _me, because I'm not sick."

"Don't change the subject." Her voice faltered slightly as the hand moved lower, tracing the delicate curve of her breast.

"And even if I was sick, do I look like I want a cure? Do you think I want an ordinary, boring life filled with the everyday evils of mundane men? There's no such thing as normal _Harley_, you know that. You know I'm _right_."

And then his mouth smashed into hers and this time there were no tears, no shame, no hatred and no disgust. It was neither gentle nor romantic; but neither was he. It was so forceful, so intense that the pleasure was combined in equal measure with pain; indeed Harleen was almost certain that her lips were bleeding. The cold metallic taste bled into the kiss and into his mouth escalating his frenzied assault on her.

He grasped the top of her arms pulling her roughly onto the metal table. His rigid grip would bruise; but she was slowly learning that everything he would ever to do to her would bruise, whether physically, mentally or emotionally.

The whole experience should have disgusted her. She could have screamed for help; she could have stopped him. But there was no desire in her to do so. She reveled in what should have been revolting; he was wrong. She was wrong. The whole situation was wrong. But Harleen found that in the midst of all the wrongness was to come the biggest right she had ever known, a realisation so astonishing that the Harleen struggled to understand the sheer depth of how it would change everything.

From the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes she felt electrified in the sheer immoral nature of it all. His hands twisted in her now loose hair, pulling her painfully down into the table, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Not Arkham, not Doctor Smith, not her job, not her supposed friends.

She wondered if this was how he felt; if this was his fulfillment. Perhaps he was sharing it with her, giving her a taste of completion that she would never know. He was on top of her now, his roughly slashed cheeks abrasive against the smooth skin of her own. He wouldn't lie to himself – he wanted her. But he also struck by the obscene urge to hurt her as well. He wanted to hear her scream, he wanted to hear her cry. But he also rather liked the way she seemed so enamored and naïve; it made her all the more amusing to crush.

She was the perfect piece to play with, one worth preserving if only for his own entertainment.

He pinned her down forcefully, his now overly long hair tickling her face. His own face was millimeters from her s and both were breathing heavily with exertion. "Now _Harlequin_. How. Loud. Can. You. _Scream_?"

In a room, far away on the other side of Arkham Doctor Smith watched a small screen, horror and despair slowly writing themselves across her features, as everything came bursting apart at the seams.

* * *

As it transpired, she could scream rather loudly. And he liked that. He pulled on her hair a little harder and she groaned in painful excitement; she was enjoying this a little bit too much. With one last touch of the bruises on her face, he threw her from the table to the floor, which she hit with a solid smack. "Session terminated."

She dragged herself up in an awkward manner, brushing the hair back from her bleary eyes as she sought out the panic button under the interview desk. Pulling her hair back into a rather haphazard bun she looked up to meet his eyes, which bore with a sadistic intensity into her own. She had no idea what to say; not that it mattered; she wasn't even quite capable of forming coherent speech yet.

The door was rammed open by a barrage of security personnel, destroying both the moment and any further hopes for conversation. They made a beeline straight for him and he grinned in savage humour as they harshly shoved him against the table and cuffed him.

"Are you okay doctor?"

Harleen blinked and shook her head in disorientated surprise. "I'm fine."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No." The lie couldn't have been more blatant; he had ripped her medical coat from her, leaving the fresh bruises from his unforgiving grip on display for everyone to see.

Harleen heard Doctor Smith before she saw her; her authoritative voice cut through the chaos, seeking out her charge. "Where's Harleen?" Harleen made no move to respond, instead watching in broken despair as the Joker was forced callously from the room.

He turned through the sea of security persons and caught her eye, grinning manically. "You'll be back, Harley." And then he was gone.

She turned to the man still stood by her side. "Don't hurt him."

He was evidently taken aback by her odd request. "We follow a strict code of ethics doctor. But do you really believe he has earned any compassion?" He cast a concerned, purposeful glance at the marks on her arms; Harleen shrugged in response.

"Harleen!" There was a hand on her shoulder.

"Doctor Smith." She acknowledged flatly.

"Come with me."

Harleen followed without question. The events of the past hour felt like some kind of surreal dream; she pinched herself, just in case. The last time he had kissed her, she had felt reviled inside. On reflection, she supposed it must have been some sort of denial. Whatever she felt now she didn't entirely understand, but it was a far cry from revulsion of any kind.

She knew that if she had truly wanted, it would have been easy to stop him. She could have pushed the panic button; she could have been stronger and defied his attempts to mould her into his plaything. But she didn't want to. She wanted him to touch her and she wanted him to hurt her. He was unlike any other man alive; he was exhilarating, heady and defied everything society attempted to chain him down with. He had no God and he lived by nobody's rule.

She had spent her life abiding by what society deemed moral and what society considered right; suddenly it all seemed completely worthless. One man had turned every notion regarding ethical protocol upon his head and forced her to think about the real meaning of life.

In the back of her mind, where a few shreds of common sense clung desperately to the hope of survival, she supposed she was romanticizing an incredibly dangerous man as a means to justify how she felt. She discarded the thought quickly; it felt like a boring thing to consider.

They carried on to Doctor Smith's office in utter silence. It was unusual and would have been remarkably uncomfortable had Harleen cared enough to register the situation. She did notice however that Doctor Smith seemed to be bubbling with an underlying fury; an hour previously the very thought of Doctor Smith's rage would have terrified her. Now, it just seemed utterly insignificant.

Harleen did not take a seat as she entered the office. She was almost certain about the direction this conversation would be taking; she wondered if she would be allowed to skip the speech and just clean her desk out.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Doctor Smith turned to face the young psychiatrist, something that looked like desperation painted across her face. She could utter only one word to her once protégée. "Why?"


End file.
